LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


^*       ^^        ^^ 

This  is  an  authorized  facsimile  of  the  original  book,  and  was 
produced  in  1968  by  microfilm-xerography  by  University 
Microfilms,  A  Xerox  Company,  Ann  Arbor,  Michigan,  U.S.A. 

*  *  * 


CLIO 


ST 


JAMES   G.    PERCIVAL. 

•  \  I 


No.  1. 


aia/ra  t  magmmtmi pochi '. — PETRARCA: 


CHARLESTON  \ 
PUBLISHED  BY  S.  BABCOCK  fc  CO. 

t.  C.     >  j'.MN'i.  PRINTER. 


1822. 

LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


CO. 


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T?ftAC 


WrsTIUCT  OF  SOUTH-CAROLINA;         Si  *-•;•••  w 

.***#**#*  j         RK   IT   itt:MF.Mitt:iu:i>,  (hat  on  the  twenty-fifth 

*     -i  \i      *     day  of  January,  A.  u.OHp  thousand  .t'iglit  huiiUnnl 

*     nn«!  tut  ni  v  -iu  <»,  and  iu  the  rortv-sixili  \«-ar  of  tin* 

lmlc|MHuienfe  of  the  I  nii<  <l  Stai«*s  oi'  Auu-ru-a, 

JVMKS  'i    I'j  i,.  i\  \i   it<-|iosite<l  in   this  otlue  lh<>  title  of  a  hook, 

(lip  right  u'irr.'.)!   h<»  i-laiins    as  author  and  proprietor,  in    the 

words  following,  /o'JCi/: 

••CI.IO.     By  Jainos  O.  Percival.     No.  I. 

'•  Clie  *\i\fra  i  nifi<riinninti  jtoclii!  —  |'KTR.\HCA.M 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  congress  of  the  Cnitcd  States,  rnti- 
tli-il,  '•  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing 
the  cnpif-  of  maps,  charts,  and  hooks,  to  the  authors  :uid  propri- 
etor*. of  such  copies,  dining  the  limes  therein  mentioned;"  and 
also  an  act,  entitled,  "  An  act  supplementary  to  an  act,  entitled, 
•  An  act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning1,  l»y  securing  the  co- 
pies of  maps,  charts,  and  hooks,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors 
of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned,1  and  extend- 
ing the  li'-iiciii-  thereof  to  the  arts  of  desi<ruin<r,  em-  ravin"-,  and 
etchini;  historical  and  other  prints." 


Ckrk  Smith-  Carolina 


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LIBRARIES 

-••—          J 
~  ''fit  -.,/-,  \\\>'  / 


.'•Uv. 


PREFACE. 

I  wifiiif  perhaps  give  the  public,  in 
rounded  phrase,  an  apology  for  obtruding 
this  volume  on  their  notice:  but  I  feel  no 
inclination  to%be£  for  it  that  favour,  which 
its  own  merits  will  not  obtain.  I  have  not, 
like  (Jeolfrev  and  the  Idle  Man,  concealed 
my  real  name  beneath  a  fiction.  I  do  not 
fear  to  answer  for  the  offences  of  my  own 
Hlusions,  and  I  do  not  expect  from  them  a 
weight  of  honour  too  great  for  my  own 
shoulders  to  bear.  I  have  ollered  tliis  vo- 
lume, us  the  first  number  of  a  series,  which 
ina\  perhaps  be  continued.  Bui  1  make  no 
promises,  ll  ma\  not  only  be  the  first,  but 
the  last- of- the  family.  At  least,  I  do  not 
intend  to  limit  the  appearance  ol  these  num- 
bers to  stated  periods;  but  should  I  find 
myself  warmed  In  the  sun  of  public  patron- 
age, and  feel  my  fancy  free  to  expatiate  in 


IV 


a  happy  vein,  I  shall,  as  soon  as  the  material* 
are  sufficiently  accumulated,  again  embody 
them,  and  give  them  to  the  world. 

If  I  mistake  not,  we  are  'indebted  to  our 
distinguished  fellow  citizen,  Irving,  (a  man, 
whom  his  country  should  be  proud  to  ho- 
nour, and  who  so  becomingly  discharges  the 
[unctions  of  minister  plenipotentiary  of 
American  taste  and  genius  in  the  literary 
republics  of  Europe,)  for  the  plan  of  com- 
bining elegant  essays,  and  pleasing  narratives, 
in  numbers,  which  do  not  issue  from  the 
overdrawn  fountains  of  monthly  and  quar- 
terly literature,  but  roll  on  in  vigorous  ful- 
ness, when  the  burdened  spirit  lets  loose  its 
overflowings.  In  his  own  native  land,  he 
has  found  his  imitators  springing  up  around 
him,  like  meadow  flowers  around  our  proud- 
est lily;*  and  although  we  have  seen  none 
on  whom  his  entire  mantle  has  fallen,  yet  the 
Idle  Man  has  added  one  improvement,  by 
winding  up  his  numbers  with  the  sweet. 
touches  of  the  gentle  harp  of  Green  River. 


Siiperb 


I  have  ventured  to  invert  the  order,  and  to 
place,  111  the  front  rank, 

"  Words  that  move 
In  measured  file,  and  metrical  array." 

This  is  indeed  quite  a  modification  of  the 
experiment,  and  it  remains  to  be  learned  how 
the  public  will  tolerate  a  periodical  poet, 
who,  like  the  wandering  minstrel  of  old, 
will  take  them  in  his. round  at  certain  sea- 
sons, and  demand  for  his  airy,  unsubstantial 
offerings,  a  (jitantu/n  sitjflicit  of  more  tangible 
existences.  1  can  plead,  in  mv  defence,  the 
examples  of  the  German  bards,  Kot/ebue, 
Lessinji,  and  Burger;  but  these  Germans  are 
a  visionary  race,  who  love  to  wander  in  the 
'regions  of  mysticism  and  singularity, — and 
are  therefore  not  to  be  pleaded,  by  the  dwell- 
er in  a  country  so  enlightened  and  business- 
like as  ours.  I  would  not  indeed  wish  to 
split  hairs  with  Kant,  nor  dream  of  his 
possible  transcendentalisms;  nor  would  I  seal 
the  fate  of  a  luckless  wight  by  the  unfortu- 
nate swell  of  his  cranium;  nor  revel  among 
the  caverns  and  churchyards,  the  ghosts  and 


VI 


goblins  of  moonstruck  ballad-mongers;  nor 
rake  up  the  filth  of  human  depravity  and 
wretchedness  to  pour  it  over  such  pages,  as 
iMelmoth  and  Bethlem  Gabor:  but  I  do 
(hiuk  the  plan  of  giving  the  public,  now  and 
then,  a  neat  tidy  volume  of  verses  and  stories, 
in  which  perchance  the  music  of  measure 
shall  predominate  over  the  plain  talk  of  prose; 
I  do  think  it  the  most  harmless  of  all  their 
conceptions  I  have  met  with,  and  the  least 
likely  to  make  mad  lovers,  mad  doctors,  or 
mad  philosophers,  of  any  thing  they  have 
dreamed  of  in  the  mysterious  seclusion  of 
i  heir  closets. 

But  I  will  now  speak  more  in  earnest.  I 
do  not  intend  to  give  satires  on  the  living 
manners,  as  they  rise;  nor  broad-grinning 
caricatures  in  the  style  of  North  and  Co. ;  but 
10  delineate,  as  well  as  may  be,  the  beau 
-nical.  Poetry  should  be  a  sacred  thing,  not 
10  be  thrown  away  on  the  dull  and  low  reali- 
ties of  life.  It  should  live  only  with  those 
feelings  and  imaginations,  which  are  above 
this  world,  and  are  the  anticipations  of  a 
brighter  and  better  being.  It  should  be  th*.- 


vii 
creator  of  a  sublimity  undebased    by  anv 

*/  */  v 

thin*;  earthly,  and  the  embodier  of  a  beauty, 
that  mocks  at  all  defilement  and  decay.  It 
should  he,  in  fine,  the  historian  of  human 
nature  in  its  fullest  possible  perfection,  and 
the  painter  of  all  those  lines  and  touches,  in 
earth  and  heaven,  which  nothing,  but  taste, 
can  see  and  feel.  It  should  give  to  its  fo/ms 
the  expression  of  angels,  and  throw  over  its 
pictures  the  hues  of  immortality.  There 
can  be  but  one  extravagance  in  poetry;  it  is, 
to  clothe  feeble  conceptions  in  mighty  lan- 
guage. But  if  the  mind  can  keep  pace  with 
the  pen;  if  the  fancy  can  fill  and  dilate  the 
words,  it  summons  to  array  its  images:  no 
matter  how  high  its  flights,  how  seemingly 
wild  its  reaches;  the  soul,  that  can  rise,  will 
follow  it  with  pleasure,  and  find,  in  the  har- 
mony of  its  own  emotions  with  the  high 
creations  around  it,  the  surest  evidence  that 
such  things  are  not  distempered  ravings,  and 
that,  in  the  society  of  beings  so  pure  and  so 
exalted,  it  is  good  to  be  present.  I  might  go 
•  on  to  speak  farther  of  the  nature  and  uses  of 
poetry;  but  I  will  now  forbear.  Perhaps  it 


viii 

may  hereafter  be  the  subject  of  a  regular 
essay.  At  present  I  will  only  observe,  that  I 
may  very  possibly,  and  even  probably  fail  in 
my  efforts  at  the  ideal;  and  while  soaring  oil 
feeble  wings  too  near  the  warmth  and  bright- 
ness of  greater  spirits,  may  find  mvsell,  at 
the  end  of  my  excursion,  fallen  below  the 
common  level  of  existence. 
•S'ec/  virtus  tmtasst 


CLIO. 


SOiNNET. 

COME  forth,  fair  waters,  from  the  classic  spring, 
And  let  me  quaff  your  nectar,  that  my  soul 

May  lift  itself  upon  a  bolder  wing, 

And  spurn  awhile  this  being's  base  control. 

How  many  a  cup  of  inspiration  stole 

The  bards  from  out  thy  sparkling  well,  and  sun*; 
Strains  high,  and  worthy  of  the  kindling  bowl. 

Till  all  Aonia  and  Ilesperia  rung. — 

And  on  the  green  isles  of  the  ocean  sprung 
A  wilder  race  of  minstrels,  like  the  storm, 

Which  heats  their  rocky  bulwarks;  there  they  strunj 
A  louder  harp,  and  show'd  a  prouder  form ; 

And  sending  o?er  the  sea  their  song,  our  shore 

Shall  catch  the  sound,  and  silent  sleep  no  more. 


10 


LIBERTY  TO  ATHENS.    ODE. 

THE  flag  of  freedom  floats  once  more 

Around  the  lofty  Parthenon; 
It  waves,  as  wav'ti  the  palm  of  yore, 

In  days  departed  long  and  gone; 
As  bright  a  glory,  from  the  skies, 

Pours  down  its  light  around  those  tow'rs. 
And  once  .again  the  Greeks  arise, 

As  in  their  country's  noblest  hours; 
Their  swords  are  girt  in  virtue's  cause, 

Minerva's  sacred  hill  is  free — 
O !  may  she  keep  her  equal  laws, 

While  man  shall  live,  and  time  shall  be. 

The  pride  of  all  her  shrines  went  down; 

The  Goth,  the  I 'rank,  the  Turk,  had  reft 
The  laurel  from  her  civic  crown  ; 

Her  helm  by  many  a  sword  was  cleft: 
She  lay  among  her  ruins  low — 

Where  grew  the  palm,  the  cypress  rose, 
And  crtish'd  and  bruis'd  by  many  a  blow, 

She  cowVd  beneath  her  savage  foes; 
But  now  again  she  springs  from  earth, 

Her  loud,  a  wakening  trumpet  speaks; 
She  rist-s  in  a  brighter  birth, 

And  sounds  redemption  to  the  Greeks. 


11 

It  is  the  classic  jubilee— 

Their  servile  years  have  rolPd  away; 
The  clouds  that  hover'd  o'er  them  flee, 

They  hail  the  dawn  of  freedom's  day; 
From  heaven  the  golden  lisjht  descends, 

The  times  of  old  are  on  the  wing, 
And  glory -there  her  pinion  bends, 

And  beauty  wakes  a  fairer  spring; 
The  hills  of  Greece,  her  rocks,  her  waves, 

Are  all  in  triumph's  pomp  array 'd  ; 
A  liijlit  that  points  their  tyrants'  graves, 

Plays  round  each  bold  Athenian^*  blade. 

The  Parthenon,  the  sacred  shrine, 

Where  wisdom  held  her  pure  abode: 
The  hill  of  Mars,  where  light  divine 

Proclaim'd  the  true,  but  unknown  God; 
Where  justice  held  unyielding  sway, 

And  trampled  all  corruption  down, 
And  onward  took  her  lofty  way 

To  reach  at  truth's  unfading  crown: 
The  rock,  where  liberty  was  full, 

Where  eloquence  her  torrents  roll'd, 
\nd  loud,  against  the  despot's  rule, 

A  knell  the  patriot's  fury  toll'd: 
The  stage,  whereon  the  drama  spake, 

In  tones,  that  seemM  the  words  of  heav'iij 
Which  made  the  wretch  in  terror  shake, 

As  by  avenging  furies  driv'n : 


12 

The  groves  and  gardens,  where  the  fire 

Of  wisdom,  as  a  fountain,  burn'd. 
And  every  eye,  that  dar'd  aspire 

To  truth,  has  long  in  worship  turn'd : 
The  halls  and  porticoes,  where  trod 

The  moral  sage,  severe,  unstain'd, 
And  where  the  intellectual  God 

In  all  the  light  of  science  reign'd : 
The  schools,  where  rose  in  symmetry 

.  The  simple,  but  majestic  pile, 
Where  marble  threw  its  roughness  by, 

To  glow,  to  frown,  to  weep,  to  smile, 
Where  colours  made  the  canvass  live, 

Where  musick  roll'd  her  flood  along, 
And  all  the  charms,  that  art  can  give, 

Were  blent  with  beauty,  love,  and  song: 
The  port,  from  whose  capacious  womb 

Her  navies  took  their  conquering  road, 
The  heralds  of  an  awful  doom 

To  all,  who  would  not  kiss  her  rod: 
On  these  a  dawn  of  glory  springs, 

These  trophies  of  her  brightest  fame; 
Away  the  long-chainM  city  flings 

Her  weeds,  her  shackles,  and  her  shame; 
Again  her  ancient  souls  awake, 

Harmodius  bares  anew  his  sword; 
Her  sons  in  wrath  their  fetters  break, 

And  freedom  is  their  only  lord, 


13 


THE  GREEK  EMIGRANTS  SONG. 

Now  launch  the  boat  upon  the  wave — 
The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore— 
I  will  not  live,  a  cow'ring  slave, 
In  these  polluted  islands,  more — 
Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea, 
There  is  a  better  home  for  me. 

The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore, 
And  out  to  sea  the  streamers  fly—- 
My music  is  the  dashing  roar, 
My  canopy  the  stainless  sky — 
It  bends  above  so  fair  a  blue, 
Tliat  heuv'n  seems  opening  on  my  view. 

I  will  not  live,  a  cow'ring  slave, 
Though  all  the  charms  oflife  may  shine 
Around  me,  and  the  land,  the  wave 
And  sky  be  drawn  in  tints  divine — 
Give  low'ring  skies  and  rocks  to  me, 
If  there  my  spirit  can  be  free. 

Sweeter,  than  spicy  gales,  that  blow 
•From  orange  groves  with  wooing  breath, 
The  winds  may  from  these  islands  flow- 
But  Yis  an  atmosphere  of  death; 
The  lotus,  which  transformed  the  brave 
And  haughty  to  a  willing  slave. 


14 

Softer,  than  Minder's  winding  stream. 
The  wave  may  ripple  on  this  coast; 
And  brighter,  than  the  morning  beam, 
In  golden  swell,  be  round  it  tos  — 
Give  me  a  rude  and  stormy  shore, 
So  pow'r  can  never  threat  me  more. 

Brighter,  than  all  the  tales,  they  tell 
Of  eastern  pomp  and  pageantry, 
Our  sunset  skies  in  glory  swell, 
Hung  round  with  glowing  tapestry — 
The  horrors  of  a  wintry  storm 
Swell  brighter  o'er  a  freeman's  form. 

The  spring  may  here  with  autumn  twine, 
And  both  combin'd  may  rule  the  year, 
And  fresh-blown  ilow'rs  and  nicy  wine 
In  frosted  clusters  still  be  near — 
Dearer  the  wild  and  snowy  hills, 
Where  hale  and  ruddy  freedom  smiles. 

Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea, 

And  ocean's  stormy  vastness  o'er, 

There  is  a  better  home  for  me, 

A  welcomer  and  dearer  shore ; 

There  hands,  and  hearts,  and  souls,  are  twin'J, 

And  free  the  man,  and  free  the  mind. 


15 


THE  SENATE  OF  CALLIMACIII.    ODK 

IN  Callimachi's  halls  are  met 

The  chieftains  of  a  noble  line; 
The  fathers'  spirit  lingers  yet, 

To  aid  them  in  their  high  design ; 
The  spirit,  that,  in  ancient  days, 

Call'd  forth  the  boldest  Spartan  band, 
With  their  own  shields  and  breasts  to  raise 

A  living  bulwark  round  their  land. 

The  sound,  that  erst  in  Hellas  rang, 

When  war  his  brazen  trumpet  blew, 
When  shields  return'd  the  hollow  clang, 

And  ready  feet  to  battle  flew; 
That  sound,  in  Sparta's  vale  is  raised; 

The  Turkish  bar  and  bolt  are  riven; 
The  fire,  that  erst  on  (Eta  blaz'd, 

In  bolder  eddies  curls  to  heaven. 

That  flame  o'er  Spartan  valour  bimiM, 

The  brave  three-hundred's  funeral  pyre ! 
Though  now  in  Grecian  earth  inurn'd, 

Their  fame  shall  Grecian  hearts  inspire; 
ft  blazes  on  the  sacred  rock, 

It  flashes  o'er  the  hallow'd  glen ; 
Advance,  ye  Greeks!  and  breast  the  shock, 

And  show  the  world,  ve  still  are  men. 


16 

The  sons  of  sires,  who  knew  no  fear, 

When  threatening  foemen  scaPd  their  waj 
The  light  shall  see,  the  sound  shall  hear, 

And  throng  to  Callimachi's  halls : 
The  altar  of  their  country  burns ; 

They  pledge  their  oath  to  liberty; 
Their  fathers  answer  from  their  urns, , 

"  Be  like  us,  sons,  and  ye  are  free.'* 

On  old  Messene's  soil  are  met 

The  sons  of  Aristomenes ; 
Your  ancient  wrongs  and  feuds  forget 

In  wrongs  so  foul,  so  deep,  as  these:. 
A  new  Aristodemus  flings 

His  iron  gauntlet  on  the  foe; 
At  once,  a  nation's  valour  springs 

To  deal  the  liberating  blow. 

Who  would  not  glow  in  such  a  cause? 

Who — not  exult  in  such  a  name? 
Blest  be  the  sword,  each  Maynote  draws 

To  lop  away  his  bonds  and  shame  i 
The  fire  is  kindled  in  his  soul; 

The  spirit  flashes  in  his  eye; 
A  nation's  blended  voices  roll 

The  vow  of  freedom  to  the  sky. 

Leap  from  your  tombs,  ye  men,  who  stood 

At  Pyla?,  and  at  Marathon; 
The  sire  shall  find  his  boiling  blood 

Throb  in  the  bosom  of  his  son : 


17 

Haste,  demi-gods!  with  shield  and  spear, 
And  hovor  o'er  the  coming  fight; 

O !  let  the  rocks  of  Sparta  hear 

The  gathering  word,  "  Unite!  unite!" 


ODE  TO  FREEDOM. 

SPIRIT  of  the  days  of  old ! 
Ere  the  generous  heart  grew  cold; 
When  the  pulse  of  life  was  strong, 
And  the  breath  of  vengeance  long; 
When,  with  jealous  sense,  the  heart 
Felt  the  least  indignant  smart; 
When,  alive  at  every  pore, 
Honour  no  injustice  bore, 
But,  like  lions  on  their  prey, 
Sprang,  and  wash'd  the  stain  away ; 
When  the  patriot's  blood  was  shed 
At  the  shrine,  where  valour  bled; 
When  the  bard,  with  kindling  song, 
Rous'd  them  to  avenge  their  wrong; 
When  the  thought  of  insult,  deep 
In  the  heart,  could  never  sleep, 
But,  though  cherish'd  many  a  day, 
Still,  at  last,  it  burst  its  way, 
Rolling  with  impetuous  tide, 
Till  the  foeman  crouch'd  or  died. 


18 

Spirit  of  the  days  of  yore ! 
When  the  lofty  hero  bore, 
On  his  brow,  and  on  his  crest, 
Signs  of  thought,  that  could  not  rest;' 
When  the  eager,  active  soul, 
Spunvd,  and  broke  through  all  control, 
Nature  was  his  only  rule, 
Feeling  taught  his  only  school; 
When  his  vigorous  frame  was  nursM, 
By  no  arts,  that  poison,  curs'd; 
When  his  heart  was  firm  to  will, 
And  his  hand  was  strong  to  kill; 
When  he  sternly  struggled  through 
All,  that  he  resolved  to  do; 
Wh«'n  he  reck'd  not,  if  his  path 
SmilM  in  peace,  or  frown'd  in  wrath; 
When  he  started  at  the  call, 
Country  gave,  and  left  his  all, 
Onward  trod  to  front  the  foe, 
Nerv'd  to  deal  the  deadly  blow; 
When  the  fight,  to  him,  was  play; 
When  lie  card  not,  if  his  way 
Led  to  victory,  or  the  grave — 
Either  fate  becomes  the  brave? 
Days  of  strength  gigantic !  fled, 
Valour  sleeps,  and  fame  is  dead. 

Spirit  of  the  bold  and  free ! 
Mountain  breath  of  liberty ; 


19 

Parent  of  a  hardy  breed, 

Fiery  as  the  Arab  steed ; 

Master  of  the  mighty  charm: 

Knitter  of  the  brawny  arm, 

Of  the  knee  that  cannot  kneel, 

Heart  of  oak,  and  nerve  of  steel ; 

Ruler  of  the  craggy  wild ; 

On  a  throne  of  granite  pil'd, 

Like  a  giant  altar,  thou 

Biddest  all,  who  love  thee,  bow, 

Bend  the  neck,  and  fold  the  knee, 

To  no  conqueror,  but  thee ; 

In  that  hold  thou  bidst  them  wait, 

Till  some  proud,  ambitious  state, 

Marching  in  tlie  pomp  of  war, 

Spread  its  flaunting  banner  far, 

And  with  high  and  threatening  breath, 

Call  to  slavery,  or  death ; 

Then  thou  bidst  them  gird  the  brand, 

Plant  the  foot,  and  raise  the  hand, 

Draw  the  panting  nostril  wide, 

And  with  stern  and  stately  stride, 

Forward,  like  the  eagle's  wing, 

On  the  proud  invader  spring, 

And  in  one  resistless  rush, 

All  his  pow'r  and  splendour  crush. 

Spirit  of  the  great  and  good ! 
Such  as,  in  Athene,  stood, 


20 

Stern  in  justice,  on  the  rock, 


An<!  when  civil  tempest  ragM, 
And  intestine  war  was  wag'd, 
With  serene,  hut  awiul  sway, 
RollM  the  madd'ning  tide  away: 
Such  as  met  at  Pylaj's  wall, 
Ere  that  glorious  freedom's  fall  — 
When  -the  life  of  Greece  was  young, 
Like  the  sun  from  ocean  sprung, 
And  the  warm  and  lifted  soul 
Marching  onward  to  its  goal  : 
Such  as  at  those  holy  gates, 
Bulwark  of  the  banded  states, 
With  the  hireling  Persian  strove, 
In  the  high  and  ardent  love, 
Souls  that  cannot  stoop  to  shame, 
Bear-to  freedom's  sacred  name: 
Such  as  with  the  Saxon  flew, 
Ever  to  their  country  true, 
From  the  rock,  the  wood,  the  fen, 
From  the  cavern  and  the  den, 
Eager  to  the  field  of  fight, 
Like  a  cloud  that  comes  by  night, 
Tore  away,  at  once,  the  chain 
Fasteird  by  the  robber  Dane, 
Drove  him  headlong  from  that  shore, 
And  enibalm'd  his  host  in  gore; 
Then  secur'd  their  country's  cause, 
With  a  bond  of  equal  laws, 


21 

And  bequeathed  the  sacred  trust, 
When  their  bones  should  fall  in  dust, 
To  that  island  race,  who  bear 
Light,  and  warmth,  and  glory,  where 
Ocean's  unchainM  billows  roll 
From  the  mid-day  to  the  pole ; 
And  to  that  more  daring  shoot, 
Bent  with  flow'rs,  and  promised  fruit, 
Who  have  dar'd,  beyond  the  sea, 
To  assert  their  liberty, 
Who,  upon  the  forted  hill, 
Brav'd  a  tyrant  father's  will, 
Down  the  bloody  gauntlet  threw, 
Grasp'd  and  snapp'd  the  links  in  two, 
And  unshackled  ventur'd  forth, 
Noblest  of  the  sons  of  earth. 

Spirit  of  the  stirring  blood, 
Rolling  in  an  even  flood 
Through  the  hale  and  ruddy  cheek; 
Scorner  of  the  pale  and  weak, 
Who  in  festering  cities  crawl, 
Victims  of  a  sordid  thrall, 
And  for  ever  draw  their  breath, 
Lingering  on  the  brink  of  death : 
But  to  thee  the  giant  limb, 
Strong  to  leap,  to  run,  to  swim, 
Strong  to  guide  the  plough  or  brand, 
(iuard,  or  free,  or  till  their  land; 


22 

But  to  thee  the  godlike  frame, 
Such  as  puts  our  dwarfs  to  shame, 
Firm,  erect,  and  fair,  as  first 
Adam  from  his  Maker  burst, 
And  exulting  leapM  to  see 
His  angelic  symmetry; 
Bat  to  thee  the  eagle  eye, 
Lifted  to  its  parent  sky, 
Drinking  in  the  living  stream, 
And  again,  with  ardent  beam, 
Sending  all  its  fires  abroad, 
Like  the  language  of  a  god; 
But  to  thee  ihe  mighty  brow, 
FixM  to  dare,  uniis'd  to  bow, 
Now  in  placid  kindness  bright, 
Like  a  rock  in  evening's  light, 
Then  with  anger's  wrinkled  frown, 
Gathered  eyebrows  lowering  down, 
Awful,  as  the  storm,  whose  fold 
Round  a  columnM  Alp  is  roll'd; 
But  to  thee  the  mind  of  fire, 
Toil  can  never  damp,  or  tire, 
(i lancing,  like  a  sun-beam,  through 
Nature  with  a  spirit's  view, 
And  from  out  its  choicest  store, 
In  its  fulness  flowing  o'er, 
Sending,  like  a  bolt,  the  flow 
Of  thought  upon  the  crowd  below. 


23 

Healthful  Spirit!  at  this  hour, 

There  are  haunts,  where  thou  hast  pow'r, 

Haunts,  where  thou  shah  ever  be, 

As  thou  ever  hast  been,  free; 

Where  the  stream  of  life  is  led 

Stainless  in  its  virgin  bed, 

And  its  magic  fire  is  still 

Ulay/uiL'  on  its  holy  hill. 

There  are  mountains,  there  are  storms, 

Whore  thou  feed'st  thy  hives  and  swarms, 

Whence  thou  send'st  them,  to  restore 

Virtue,  where  it  dwells  no  more; 

Safe  in  those  embattled  rocks, 

Life  its  native  vigour  locks, 

And  its  kindling  energy 

Lives,  and  moves,  and  feels  in  thee; 

In  those  bulwarks  is  our  trust, 

For  the  boundless  pow'r  is  just, 

Nor  wilt  thou,  from  earth,  arise, 

Linked  with  justice,  to  the  skies, 

But  below,  with  mercy,  dwell, 

Till  the  world  shall  hear  its  knell. 


SrmiT  OP  FREEDOM  ?  who  thy  home  hast  made 
In  wilds  and  wastes,  where  wealth  has  never  trod, 
Nor  bow-d  her  coward  head  before  her  god, 

The  sordid  deity  of  fraudlul  trade  j 


24 

Whe?e  pow'r  has  never  rear'd  his  iron  brow, 
And  glared  liis  glance  of  terror,  nor  has  blown 
The  madd'ning  trump  of  battle,  nor  has  flown 

His  blood-thirst  eagles;  where  no  flatt'rers  bow, 
And  kiss  the  loot  that  spurns  them  ;  where  no  throne, 

Bright  with  the  spoils  from  nations  wrested,  tow'rs, 
The  idol  of  a  slavish  mob,  who  herd, 

Where  largess  feeds  their  sloth  with  golden  showers, 
And  thousands  hang  upon  one  tyrant's  word — 

SPIRIT  OP  FREEDOM  !  thou,  who  dwelPst  alone, 
Unblench'd,  unyielding,  on  the  storm-beat  shore, 
And  find'st  a  stirring  music  in  its  roar, 

And  look'st  abroad  on  earth  and  sea,  thy  own — 
Far  from  the  city's  noxious  hold,  thy  foot, 

Fleet  as  the  wild  deer,  bounds,  as  if  its  breath 

Were  but  the  rankest,  foulest  steam  of  death; 
Its  soil  were  but  the  dunghill,  where  the  root 

Of  every  poisonous  weed  and  baleful  tree 
Grew  vigorously  and  deeply,  till  their  shade 
Had  chok'd  and  kill'd  each  wholesome  plant,  and  laid 

In  rottenness  the  flow?r  of  LIBERTY— 

Thou  flyest  to  the  desert,  and  its  sands 

Become  thy  welcome  shelter,  where  the  pure 
Wind  gives  its  freshness  to  thy  roving  bands, 

And  languid  weakness  finds  its  only  cure; 
Where  few  their  wants,  and  bounded  their  desires, 

And  life  all  spring  and  action,  they  display 
Man's  boldest  flights,  and  highest,  warmest  fires. 

And  beauty  wears  her  loveliest  array — 


25 

Thou  climb'st  the  mountain's  crag,  and  with  the  snows 

Dwell'st  high  above  the  slothful  plains ;  the  rock 

Thy  iron  bed ;  the  avalanche's  shock 
Thou  sternly  breastest:  hunger,  cold  and  toil 
Harden  thy  steel'd  nerves,  till  the  frozen  soil, 

The  gnarled  oak,  the  torrent,  as  it  flows 
In  thunder  down  its  gulph,  are  not  more  rude, 

More  hardy,  more  resistless,  than  thy  force, 

When  wak'd  to  madness,  in  thy  headlong  course, 
Thou  rushest  from  thy  wintry  solitude, 

And  sweepest  frighted  nations  on  thy  path, 

A  whirlwind  in  the  fury  of  thy  wrath, 
And  with  one  curl  of  thy  indignant  frown, 
Castcst  the  pride  of  plumed  warriors  down, 

And  bear'st  them  onward,  like  the  storm-fill'd  wave. 

In  mingled  ruin  to  their  bloody  grave.— 

SPIRIT  OF  FREEDOM  !  I  would  with  thee  dwell, 
Whether  on  Afric's  sand,  or  Norway 's  crags, 

Or  Kansa's  prairies,  for  thou  lov'st  them  well, 
And  there  thy  boldest  daring  never  flags; 

Or  I  would  launch  with  thee  upon  the  deep, 
And  like  the  petrel  make  the  wave  my  home, 
And  careless,  as  the  sportive  sea-bird,  roam ; 

Or  with  the  chamois,  on  the  Alp  would  leap, 
And  feel  myself,  upon  the  snow-clad  height, 
A  portion  of  that  undimm'd  flow  of  light, 

No  mist  nor  cloud  can  darken — O !  with  thee, 
Spirit  of  freedom !  deserts,  mountains,  storms, 
Would  wear  a  glow  of  beauty,  and  their  forms 
3 


26 

Would  soften  into  loveliness,  and  be 
Dearest  of  earth,  for  there  my  soul  is  free. 


PEW-ENGLAND. 

HAIL  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread, 

Our  fondest  boast ; 
The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled, 
Who  sleep  on  glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host : 

No  slave  is  here— our  unchain'd  feet 
Walk  freely,  as  the  waves  that  beat 

Our  coast. 

Our  fathers  cross'd  the  ocean's  wave 

To  seek  this  shore; 
They  left  behind  the  coward  slave 
To  welter  in  his  living  grave; 
Witli  hearts  unbent,  high,  steady,  brave, 

They  sternly  bore 

Such  toils,  as  meaner  souls  had  quelPd; 
But  souls  like  these,  such  toils  impelled 

To  soar. 

Hail  to  the  morn,  when  first  they  stood 

On  Bunker's  height ; 
And  fearless  stemm'd  the  invading  flood. 


27 

A  nd  wrote  our  dearest  rights  in  blood, 
And  mow'd  in  ranks  the  hireling  brood, 

In  desperate  fight: 
O !  'twas  a  proud,  exulting  day. 
For  ev'n  our  fallen  fortunes  lay 

In  light. 

• 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore ; 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  liberty 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shall  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
.My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 

She  bore. 

Thou  art  the  firm,  unshaken  rock, 

On  which  we  rest ; 
Vnd  rising  from  thy  hardy  stock, 
Thy  sons  the  tyrant's  frown  shall  mock, 
Vnd  slavery's  galling  chains  unlock, 

And  free  the  oppress'd : 
All,  who  the  wreath  of  freedom  twine, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  vine 

Are  blest. 

We  love  thy  rude  and  rocky  shore, 

And  here  we  stand — 
Let  foreign  navies  hasten  o'er, 


28 

And  on  our  heads  their  fury  pour, 
And  peal  tlieir  cannon's  loudest  roar, 

And  storm  our  land : 
They  still  shall  find,  our  lives  are  giv'n 
To  die  for  home; — and  leant  on  heav'a 

Our  hand. 


NAVAL  ODE 

OUR  walls  are  on  the  sea, 

And  they  ride  along  the  wave, 
Alann'd  with  sailors  hold  and  freer 

And  the  lofty  and  the  brave 
Hoist  their  flag  to  the  sport  of  the  gale : 
With  an  even  march  they  sweep 
O'er  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
And  their  order  trimly  keep, 
As  they  sail. 

Though  so  gallantly  we  ride, 

Yet  we  do  not  seek  the  fight ; 
\Ve  have  justice  on  our  side, 

And  we  battle  in  our  right, 
For  our  homes,  and  our  altars,  and  sires 
Then  we  kindle  in  our  cause, 
And  awhile  a  solemn  pause — 
When  the  cannon's  iron  jaws 
Spout  their  fires. 


29 

AVe  abhor  the  waste  of  life, 

And  the  massacre  of  war; 
We  detest  the  brutal  strife 

Tn  the  van  of  glory's  car ; 
But  w  never  will  shrink  from  the  foe: 
This,  when  battle's  lightning  runs 
Through  his  horror-speaking  guns, 
And  his  bra/en  thunder  stuns, 
He  shall  know. 

We  have  met  them  on  the  deep, 
With  Decatur  and  with  Hull, 
Where  our  fallen  comrades  sleep 
In  their  glory's  proudest  full ; 
For  our  homes  we  will  meet  them  again : 
Let  their  boasted  navies  frown, 
As  they  proudly  bear  them  down; 
We  will  conquer,  burn,  or  drown, 
On  the  main. 

"We,  too,  have  hearts  of  oak, 

And  the  hour  of  strife  may  come, 
With  its  hurricane  of  smoke, 

Hissing  ball  and  bursting  bomb, 
And  the  death-shot  ir.ay  launch  through  our  crew ; 
But  our  spirits  feel  no  dread, 
And  we  bear  our  ship  ahead, 
For  we  know  that  honour's  bed 
Is  our  due. 

3* 


30 

Then  come  on,  ye  gallant  tars ! 

With  your  matches  in  your  hand, 
And  parade  beneath  our  stars 

With  a  free  and  noble  stand, 
As  you  wait  for  the  moment  of  death : 
Hark  the  word — the  foe  is  nigh, 
And  at  once  their  war-dogs  fly, 
Cut  with  bosoms  throbbing  high, 
Yield  your  breath. 

Do  your  duty,  gallant  boys ! 

And  you  homeward  shall  return 
To  partake  your  country's  joys, 

When  the  lights  of  triumph  burn, 
And  the  warm  toast  is  drank  to  the  brave; 
Then,  when  country  calls  again, 
Be  your  march  along  the  main, 
And  in  glory  spread  her  reign 
(Ver  the  wave. 


A  PLATONIC  BACCHANAL  SONG 

FILL  high  the  bowl  of  life  for  me — 
.  Let  roses  mantle  round  its  brim, 
While  heart  is  warm,  and  thought  is  fref , 

Ere  beauty's  light  is  waning  dinv— 
Fill  high  with  brightest  draughts  of  soul, 

And  let  it  flow  with  feeling  o'er, 


31 

And  love,  the  sparkling  cup,  he  stole 
From  heav'n,  to  give  it  briskness,  pour. 

O !  fill  the  bowl  oflife  for  me, 

And  wreath  its  dripping  brim  with  flowers, 

And  I  will  drink,  as  lightly  flee 
Our  early,  unreturning  hours. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  of  life  with  wine, 

That  swell'd  the  grape  of  Eden's  grove, 
Ere  human  life,  in  its  decline, 

Had  strow'd  with  thorns  the  path  of  love— 
Fill  high  from  virtue's  crystal  fount, 

That  springs  beneath  the  throne  of  heav'n, 
And  sparkles  brightly  o'er  the  mount, 

From  which  our  fallen  souls  were  driven. 
O !  fill  the  bowl  oflife  with  wine, 

The  wine,  that  charm'd  the  gods  above, 
And  round  its  brim  a  garland  twine, 

That  blossomed  in  the  bow'r  of  love. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  of  life  with  spirit, 

Drawn  from  the  living  sun  of  soul, 
And  let  the  wing  of  genius  bear  it, 

Deep-glowing,  like  a  kindled  coal- 
Fill  high  from  that  ethereal  treasure, 

And  let  me  quaff  the  flowing  fire, 
And  know  awhile  the  boundless  pleasure, 

That  heaven-lit  fancy  can  inspire. 
O !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  with  spirit, 

And  give  it  brimming  o'er  to  me, 


32 

And  as  I  quaff,  I  seem  to  inherit 
The  glow  of  immortality. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  of  life  with  thought 

From  that  unfathomable  well, 
Which  sages  long  and  long  have  sought 

To  sound,  but  none  its  depths  can  tell — 
Fill  high  from  that  dark  stainless  wave, 

Which  mounts  and  flows  for  ever  on, 
And  rising  proudly  o'er  the  grave, 

There  finds  its  noblest  course  begun. 
O!  fill  the  bowl  of  life  with  thought, 

And  I  will  drink  the  bumper  up, 
And  find,  whatever  my  wish  had  sought, 

In  that,  the  purest,  sweetest  cup. 


HERE  's  to  her,  who  wore 
The  myrtle  wreath,  that  bound  me; 

Here  7s  to  her,  who  bore 
The  twine  of  bay,  that  crown'd  me— 

O !  had  not  her  light 
So  brightly  shone  upon  me, 

Still  the  cloud  of  night 
Had  darkly  brooded  on  me  5 

There  was  in  her  eye 
A  spirit,  that  inspired  me ; 

Still  to  do  or  die, 
The  electric  sparkle  fir'd  mej 


33 

And  though  the  ice  of  death 
Should  chill  the  heart  within  me, 

The  music  of  her  breath 
Back  to  life  again  would  win  me; 

So  here  's  to  her,  who  wore 
The  myrtle  wreath,  that  bound  me 3 

The  girl,  who  kindly  bore 
The  twine  of  bay,  that  crown'd  me. 

No  more  the  iron  chain 
Of  doubt  and  fear  enthrals  me; 

I  lift  my  wing  again, 
For  'tis  her  voice  that  calls  me; 

Still  higher,  higher  still, 
In  search  of  glory  soaring, 

I  feel  my  bosom  thrill 
To  the  song  her  voice  is  pouring; 

And  though  I  stretch  my  flight, 
Where  heav'n  alone  is  o'er  me, 

I  see  her  form  of  light 
Still  floating  on  before  me : 

O !  when  foes  the  direst  move 
In  columns  to  assail  us, 

Let  us  hear  the  voice  of  love, 
And  our  courage  cannot  fail  us : 

So  here  ?s  to  her,  &c. 

And  when  my  drowsy  soul 
A  heedless  moment  slumbers, 


34 

Away  the  vapours  roll 
At  the  magic  of  her  numbers  5 

Back  to  life  again  I  start, 
At  her  thrilling  summons  waking, 

K  v'ry  link,  that  bound  my  heart 
Down  to  earth,  indignant  breaking; 

Then  I  follow,  where  she  flies, 
Like  a  shooting  star,  before  me, 

And  her  fascinating  eyes 
Shed  their  fire  in  flashes  o'er  me: 

O  !  cold  the  heart,  could  sleep, 
When  her  silver  trumpet  call'd  it, 

And  the  soul,  that  would  not  leap, 
When  her  flow'ry  chain  enthralled  it  : 

So  here  's  to  her,  who  wore    , 
The  myrtle  wreath,  that  bound  me  j 

The  girl,  who  kindly  bore 
The  twine  of  bay,  that  crown'd  me. 


THOU  art  endear'd  to  me  by  all 

The  ties  of  kindred  minds, 
And  thou  hast  twin'd  my  heart  in  all 

The  chains  that  beauty  binds; 
The  man,  who  could  deceive  thee, 

And  when  the  prize  was  won, 
Could  ruin,  scorn,  and  leave  thee, 

Must  have  a  heart  of  stone. 


35 

For  but  one  look  of  kindness  giv'n 

By  thee,  my  heart  would  brave 
The  coldest,  darkest  frowns  of  heav'n, 

The  terrors  of  the  grave : 
O!  death  cannot  affright  me, 

When  thou  art  smiling  by; 
I  ask  no  star  to  light  me, 

But  the  sparkle  of  thine  eye. 

But  all  thy  bloom  and  loveliness 

How  soon  will  fade  away! 
Thy  b«  auty  and  thy  comeliness 

Will  moulu?r  intoc)°v: 
O !  when  thy  charms  have  taken  wing. 

And  all  thy  li  ht  is  gone, 
How  foncliy  still  my  heart  would  cling 

To  thee,  and  thee  alone ! 


CONSUMPTION'. 

THFRE  is  a  sweetness  in  woman's  decay, 
When  the  light  of  beauty  is  fading  a\v»  /, 
When  the  bright  enchantment  of  youth  is  gone, 
And  the  tint  that  glow'd,  and  the  eye  that  shonf 
And  darted  around  its  glance  of  power, 
And  the  lip  that  vied  with  the  sweetest  flower, 
That  ever  in  P.TStunr  s*  garden  blew, 
Or  ever  was  steep'd  in  fragrant  dew, 

fc  J?iferique  rosaria  Pa-sti. —  Virg. 


36 

When  all,  that  was  bright  and  fair,  is  flfd, 
But  the  loveliness  lingering  round  the  dead. 

O !  there  is  a  sweetness  in  beauty's  close, 
Like  the  perfume  scenting  the  withered  rose  5 
For  a  nameless  charm  around  her  plays, 
And  her  eyes  are  kindled  with  hallow'd  rays, 
And  a  veil  of  spotless  purity 
Has  mantled  her  cheek  with  its  heavenly  dye, 
Like  a  cloud  whereon  the  queen  of  night 
Has  pour'd  her  softest  tint  of  light; 
And  there  is  a  blending  of  white  and  blue, 
Where  the  purple  blood  is  melting  through 
The  snow  of  her  pule  and  tender  cheek j 
And  there  are  tones,  that  sweetly  speak 
Of  a  spirit,  who  longs  for  a  purer  day, 
And  is  ready  to  wing  her  flight  away. 

In  the  flush  of  youth  and  the  spring  of  feeling, 
When  life,  like  a  sunny  stream,  is  stealing 
Its  silent  steps  through  a  flowery  path, 
And  all  the  endearments,  that  pleasure  hath, 
Are  pour'd  from  her  full,  overflowing  horn, 
When  the  rose  of  enjoyment  conceals  no  thorn; 
In  her  lightness  of  heart,  to  the  cheery  song 
The  niuiden  may  trip  in  the  dance  along, 
And  think  of  the  passing  moment,  that  lies, 
Like  a  fairy  dream,  in  her  dazzled  eyes, 
And  yield  to  the  present,  that  charms  around 
With  all  that  is  lovely  in  sight  and  sound, 


37 

Where  a  thousand  pleasing  phantoms  flit, 

With  the  voice  of  mirth,  and  the  burst  of  wit, 

And  the  music  that  steals  to  the  bosom's  core, 

And  the  heart  in  its  fulness  flowing  o'er 

With  a  few  big  drops,  that  are  soon  repress'd, 

For  short  is  the  stay  of  grief  in  her  breast: 

In  this  enliven'd  and  gladsome  hour 

The  spirit  may  burn  with  a*  brighter  pow'r; 

But  dearer  the  calm  and  quiet  day, 

When  the  heaven-sick  soul  is  stealing  away. 

And  when  her  sun  is  low  declining, 
And  life  wears  out  with  no  repining, 
And  the  whisper,  that  tells  of  early  death, 
Is  soft  as  the  west  wind's  balmy  breath, 
When  it  comes,  at  the  hour  of  still  repose, 
To  sleep  in  the  breast  of  the  wooing  rose ; 
And  the  lip,  that  swellM  with  a  living  glow, 
Is  pale  as  a  curl  of  new-fall'ii  snow  5 
And  her  cheek,  like  the  Parian  stone,  is  fair, 
Cut  the  hectic  spot  that  flushes  there, 
When  the  tide  of  life,  from  its  secret  dwelling. 
In  a  sudden  gush,  is  deeply  swelling, 
And  giving  a  tinge  to  her  icy  lips, 
Like  the  crimson  rose's  brightest  tips, 
As  richly  red,  and  as  transient  too, 
As  the  clouds  in  autumn's  sky  of  blue, 
That  seem  liktj  a  host  of  glory  met 
To  honour  the  sun  at  his  golden  set : 
4 


38 

O !  then,  when  the  spirit  is  taking  wing, 
How  fondly  her  thoughts  to  her  dear  one-cling, 
As  if  she  would  blend  her  soul  with  his 
In  a  deep  and  long  imprinted  kiss; 
So,  fondly  the  panting  camel  flies, 
Where  the  glassy  vapour  cheats  his  eyes, 
And  the  dove  from  the  falcon  seeks  her  nest, 
And  the  infant  shrinks  to  its  mother's  breast. 
And  though  her  dying  voice  be  mute, 
Or  faint  as  the  tones  of  an  unstrung  lute, 
And  though  the  glow  from  her  cheek  be  fled, 
And  her  pale  lips  cold  as  the  marble  dead, 
Her  eye  still  beams  unwonted  fires 
With  a  woman's  love  and  a  saint's  desires, 
And  her  last  fond,  lingering  look  is  giv'n 
To  the  love  she  leaves,  and  then  to  heav'n, 
As  if  she  would  bear  that  love  away 
To  a  purer  world  and  a  brighter  day. 


TO  THE  HOUSTONIA  CERULEA/ 

How  often,  the  modest  flower ! 
I  mark  thy  tender  blossoms,  where  they  spread, 

*  A  very  delicate  and  humble  flower  of  New-England,  blos- 
soming early  in  spring,  and  often  covering  large  patches  of 
turf  with  a  white  or  pale  blue  carpet.  The  botanical  allusions 
in  this  piece  are  repeated,  and  perhaps  it  will  not  be  fully  re- 
lished by  those,  who  have  not  examined  the  structure  of  the 
flower. 


39 

Along  the  turfy  slope,  their  starry  bed, 
Hung  heavy  with  the  shower. 

Thou  comest  in  the  dawn 
Of  nature's  promise,  when  the  sod  of  May 
f  s  speckled  with  its  earliest  array ; 

And  strow'st  with  bloom  the  lawn. 

'Tis  but  a  few  brief  days, 
I  saw  the  green  hill  in  its  fold  of  snow ; 
But  now  thy  slender  stems  arise,  and  blow 

In  April's  fitful  rays. 

I  love  thee,  delicate 

And  humble,  as  thou  art;  thy  dress  of  white, 
\nd  blue,  and  all  the  tints  where  these  unite, 

Or  wrapp'd  in  spiral  plait, 

Or  to  the  glancing  sun, 

Shining  through  chequered  cloud,  and  dewy  shower, 
Unfolding  thy  fair  cross.— Yes,  tender  flower, 

Thy  blended  colours  run, 

And  meet  in  harmony, 

Commingling,  like  the  rainbow  tints;  thy  un» 
Of  yellow  rises  with  its  graceful  turn. 

And  as  a  golden  eye, 

Its  softly  swelling  throat 
Shines  in  the  centre  of  thy  circle,  where 


40 

Thy  downy  stigma  rises  slim  and  fair, 
And  catches,  as  they  float, 

A  cloud  of  living  air, 
The  atom  seeds  of  fertilizing  dust, 
That  hover,  as  thy  lurking  anthers  burst; 

And  O !  how  purely  there 

Thy  snowy  circle,  rayM 

With  crosslets,  bends  its  pearly  whiteness  round,. 
And  how  thy  spreading  lips  are  trimly  bound, 

With  such  a  mellow  shade, 

As  in  the  vaulted  blue, 
Deepens  at  starry  midnight,  or  grows  pale, 
When  mantled  in  the  full  moon's  silver  veil, 

That  calm  ethereal  hue. 

I  love  thee,  modest  flower! 
And  I  do  find  it  happiness  to  tread, 
With  careful  step,  along  thy  studded  bed, 

At  morning's  freshest  hour, 

Or  when  the  day  declines, 
\nd  evening  comes  with  dewy  footsteps  on, 
Vnd  now  his  golden  hall  of  slumber  won, 

The  setting  sun  resigns 

Jlis  empire  of  the  sky, 
\nd  the  cool  breeze  awakes  her  fluttering  train — 


41 

I  walk  through  thy  parterres,  and  not  in  vaiiu 
For  to  my  downward  eye, 

Sweet  flower !  thou  telPst  how  hearts 
As  pure  and  tender  as  thy  leaf,  as  low 
And  humble  as  thy  stem,  will  surely  know 

The  joy,  that  peace  imparts. 


THE  FRENCHMAN'S  DARLING.* 

THE  rose  may  sparkle  in  the  morn 
And  blush  and  brighten  on  its  thorn ; 
The  gaudy  tulip  proudly  spread 
Its  glories  o'er  the  enamell'd  bed; 
The  iris  imitate  the  bow, 
That  sunbeams  on  a  tempest  throw; 
All  these  may  shine  around — but  yet 
I  love  my  darling  mignonette.  % 

I  ask  no  deep-encrimson'd  flow'r 
From  India's  never  fading  bow'r ; 
No  lotus,t  where  it  closely  weaves 
The  Ganges  with  its  azure  leaves; 
I  ask  no  pensive  bud  of  woe,{ 
That  gives  the  night  its  wreath  of  snow;. 

*  Reseda  Odorata — the  Mignonette, 
t  Nymphea  Cerulea — the  Sacred  Lotus. 
J  Nyctanthes  Arbor-tristis — Night  Jessamine. 
4* 


42 

'    All  these  may  have  a  charm — but  yet 
Thy  charm  is  more,  sweet  mignonette- 

No  lily,*  that  with  gold-speckM  urn 
Seems  like  a  chandelier  to  burn, 
Where  wide  Savanna's  waters  flow 
Beneath  a  forest  bow'r  of  snow  ;t 
No  palm  with  bending  tufts  of  fire, 
No  spic'd  vanilla  1  desire; 
These  you  may  fondly  twine — but  yet 
I  fondlier  twine  my  mignonette. 

.    The  Scot  may  love  his  thistle  down, 
Its  prickly  leaves,  and  purple  crown  j 
And  Erin  on  her  shamrock  smile, 
The  beauty  of  her  emerald  isle ; 
The  holly  twine  its  glossy  braid, 
A  starry  wreath  for  Albion's  head : 
We  love  the  modest  violette:\ 
And  dearer  still  the  mignonette* 

*  Lilium  Supcrbum. 
t  Magnolia  (jrandiflora/ 

t  Viola  Tricolor — the  Pansy  Violet. — The  flower  of  Napo- 
leon 


43 

A  TULIP  blossomed,  one  morning  in  May, 

By  the  side  of  a  sanded  alley ; 
Its  leaves  were  dress'd  in  a  rich  array, 
Like  the  clouds  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  day, 

When  the  mist  rolls  over  the  valley : 
The  dew  liad  descended  the  night  before, 

And  lay  in  its  velvet  bosom, 
And  its  spreading  urn  was  flowing  o'er, 
And  the  crystal  heigliten'd  the  tints,  it  bore 

On  its  yellow  and  crimson  blossom. 

A  sweet  red-rose,  on  its  bending  thorn, 

Its  bud  was  newly  spreading, 
And  the  flowing  effulgence  of  early  morn 

Its  beams  on  its  breast  was  shedding ; 
The  petals  were  heavy  with  dripping  tears, 

That  twinkled  in  pearly  brightness, 
And  the  thrush  in  its  covert  thrill'd  my  ears 

With  a  varied  song  of  lightness. 

A  lily,  in  mantle  of  purest  snow, 

Hung  over  a  silent  fountain, 
And  the  wave  in  its  calm  and  quiet  flow, 
Displayed  its  silken  leaves  below, 

Like  the  drift  On  the  windy  mountain ; 
It  bow'd  with  the  moisture,  the  night  had  wept, 

When  the  stars  shone  over  the  billow, 
And  white-wing'd  spirits  their  vigils  kept, 
Where  beauty  and  innocence  sweetly  slept 

On  its  pure  and  thornless  pillow. 


44 

A  hyacinth  lifted  its  purple  bell 

From  the  slender  leaves  around  it; 
It  curved  its  cup  in  a  flowing  swell, 

And  a  starry  circle  crown'd  it; 
The  deep  blue  tincture,  that  robM  it,  seemM 

The  gloomiest  garb  of  sorrow, 
As  if  on  its  eye  no  brightness  beam'd, 
And  it  never  in  clearer  moments  dream'dy 

Of  a  fair  and  a  calm  to-morrow. 

A  daisy  peepM  from  the  tufted  sod. 

In  its  bashful  modesty  drooping; 
"Where  often  the  morn,  as  I  lightly  trod, 
in  bounding  youth,  the  fallow  clod, 

Had  over  it  seen  me  stooping; 
It  look'd  in  my  face  with  a  dewy  eye 

From  its  ring  of  ruby  lashes, 
And  it  seem'd,  that  a  brighter  was  lurking  byr 
The  fires  of  whose  ebony  lustre  fly, 

Like  summer's  dazzling  flashes. 

And  the  wind,  with  a  soft  and  silent  wing, 

Brush'd  over  this  wild  of  flowers, 
And  it  wakenM  the  birds,  who  began  to  sing 
Their  hymn  to  the  season  of  love  and  spring, 

In  the  shade  of  the  bending  bowers; 
And  it  cull'd  their  full  nectareous  store, 

In  its  lightly  fluttering  motion,  * 

As  when  from  Hyblu's  murmuring  shore 
The  evening  breeze  from  her  thyme-beds  bore 

Their  sweetness  over  the  ocean. 


46 

I  HAD  found  out  a  sweet  green  spot, 
Where  a  lily  was  blooming  fair; 
The  din  of  the  city  disturbed  it  not, 
But  the  spirit,  that  shades  the  quiet  cot 
With  its  wings  of  love,  was  there. 

I  found  that  lily's  bloom, 

When  the  day  was  dark  and  chill ; 
It  siniPd,  like  a  star,  in  the  misty  gloom, 
And  it  sent  abroad  a  soft  perfume, 

Which  is  floating  around  me  still. 

I  sat  by  the  lily's  bell, 

And  I  wutch'd  it  many  a  day  ; 
The  leaves,  that  rose  in  a  flowing  swell, 
Grew  faint  and  dim,  then  droopM  and  fell, 
And  the  flower  had  flown  away. 

I  look'd  where  the  leaves  were  laid, 

In  withering  paleness,  by; 
And,  as  gloomy  thoughts  stole  on  me,  said, 
There  is  many  a  sweet  and  blooming  maid, 

Who  will  soon  as  dimly  die. 


ADIEU  !  fair  flow?r,  though  frail : 
I  gaz'd  on  thee  awhile, 
And  thought  I  saw  thee  smile, 

And  woo  the  passing  gale  5 


46 

And  thou  didst  shine,  the  while, 
In  early  beauty  bright, 
And  in  thy  maiden  light 

Who  would  have  dream'd  of  guile? 

The  canker-worm  will  blight 
Thy  colours,  now  so  gay, 
And  they  will  pass  away, 

Like  drops  that  fall  by  night, 

Before  the  eye  of  day : 
It  nestles  in  thy  core, 
And  thou. wilt  charm  no  more 

The  winds  that  round  thee  play; 

But  all  thy  sweetness  o'er, 

Thy  leaves  will  droop  and  fall, 
And  darkness  spread  its  pall 

Where  all  was  bright  before. — 

And  when  thy  beauty  all 
Has  faded,  they  will  turn 
Away,  and  coldly  spurn 

Thy  love,  and  thou  wilt  call 

Unnotic'd,  and  wilt  mourn, 
That  in  the  flush  of  spring, 
When  hope  was  on  the  wing, 

And  virtue,  from  her  urn, 

Her  choicest  dews  might  fling, 
And  drop  her  richest  wave, 
That  thou  didst  dig  thy  grave, 
And  barb,  for  death,  a  sting. 


47 

How  beautifulis  Night! 

A  smile  is  on  her  brow; 
Her  eyes  of  dewy  light 
Look  out,  serenely  bright, 
Upon  the  wave  below: 
The  waters,  in  their  flow, 
Just  murmur,  and  the  air 

Hath  scarce  a  breath  to  show 
A  spirit  moving  there: 
The  world  is  purely  fair; 

The  winds  are  hush'd  and  still ; 
The  moonlight  on  the  hill 
Is  sleeping,  and  her  ray 
Along  the  falling  rill, 
In  lightly  dancing  play, 
Soft-winding  steals  away : 

A  cool  and  silent  breath, 
From  water-falls  and  streams, 
Comes  o'er  my  ear,  like  dreams, 

Which,  in  the  pictured  death 
Of  slumber,  on  the  soul 
Delicious  whispers  roll ; 

And  lead,  in  mazy  light, 
Before  the  spirit's  eye, 

Sweet  visions  of  delight, 
In  trains  of  beauty,  by. — 
How  fair  and  calm  is  Night! 
Amid  the  dewy  bow'rs 


48 

She  guides  the  silent  hours, 
With  fairy  steps,  along, 
And  round  the  floating  throng 

A  cloudy  vesture  throws; 
And  loosely  on  the  air 
She  spreads  their  raven  hair 

To  every  wind  that  blows : 
They  seem  to  hover  by 
Between  me  and  the  sky, 

Each  with  a  golden  zone, 

A  waving  robe  of  snow, 
\  veil,  whose  folds  are  thrown 

In  undulating  flow, 

Like  clouds,  when  breezes  blow; 
So  to  my  fancy's  view 

The  sylphid  people  play 
Around  the  vaulted  blue, 

And  then  they  melt  away, 
And  leave  the  sky  all  bright, 
With  lamps  of  living  light; 

And  as  I  fondly  gaze, 
Where  countless  cressets  blaze, 
I  look  to  heav'n  and  say — 

How  beautiful  is  Night! 


OFTEN*,  when  at  night  delaying, 
Where  the  winding  river  flows, 

On  the  silent  waters  playing 
How  the  star  of  beauty  glows; 


49 

In  the  clear  wave  brightly  sparkling. 

Brightly  as  the  love-lit  eye, 
Now  again  its  beams  are  darkling, 

As  the  clouds  athwart  it  fly : 
With  a  soft  and  tender  feeling 

Then  I  whisper  out  my  song, 
While  the  mellow  brook  is  stealing 

Silently  the  sand  along. 

There  is  in  that  twinkling  planet 

More  than  all  the  stars  can  boast, 
And  my  fond  eye  loves  to  scan  it, 

Like  a  light-house  on  a  coast, 
Where  the  budding  spring  is  ever 

Pranking  out  her  wooing  bowers, 
And  the  locks  of  beauty  never 

Flout  without  a  crown  of  flowers, 
And  her  eye  is  ever  straying 

Round  and  round  with  kindling  beam, 
Like  her  own  bright  planet  playing 

Sweetly  on  the  silent  stream. 

Now  the  star  is  near  the  mountain 

Slowly  setting  in  the  west, 
Shining  on  a  crisping  fountain, 

Or  a  lakelet's  ruflled  breast; 
Now  its  maiden  brightness  mingles 

With  the  mist  that  hovers  there, 
Rising  from  the  woody  dingles, 

Like  a  streaming  tress  of  hair; 


60 

form  is  imag'd  round  it, 

>Tis  the  form  that  I  adore, 
Every  charm  of  earth  has  crown'd  it, 

Fairer  beauty  never  wore : 
O !  how  dear  that  tender  feeling, 

When  the  rays  of  beauty  play, 
Where  the  mellow  brook  is  stealing, 

Lighted  by  the  moon,  away. 


WE  met  in  cheerless  hours,  my  dear, 

When  life  had  wan'd  with  me, 
And  all,  that  once  had  charm'd  me  here, 
Was  gone,  but  only  thee,  my  dear, 
Was  gone,  but  only  thee. 

I  lovM  thee  with  the  glow  of  youth, 

But  with  a  purer  flame ; 
I  vow'd,  before  the  shrine  of  truth, 
To  be,  for  aye,  the  same,  my  dear, 

To  be,  for  aye,  the  same. 

For  youthful  passion  soon  decays, 

It  flashes  and  it  dies ; 
Cut  my  fond  feeling  shone  with  rays, 
That  kindle  in  the  skies,  my  dear, 

That  kindle  in  the  skies. 

Thou  wert  too  young  to  read  my  heart, 
Or  love  the  spirit's  light ; 


51 

Thou  saidst, «  Gay  boyhood  can  impart 
A  pleasure  doubly  bright,  my  dear, 
A  pleasure  doubly  bright." 

It  was  the  fondness  of  the  eye, 

That  led  thy  heart  away; 
And  not  the  hues,  that  deeper  lie, 
Than  boyhood  bright  and  gay,  my  dear, 

Than  boyhood  bright  and  gay. 

So  farewell,  love,  for  dear  to  me 
Thy  heart  shall  be  for  ever; 
And  though  I  cannot  live  with  the«, 
O !  I'll  forget  thee  never,  dear, 
O !  I'll  forget  thee  never. 


O!  LOVE  was  made  to  mourn, 

Its  home  is  not  below ; 
While  in  this  being's  bourn. 

It  still  must  weep  in  woe. 

Its  home  is  in  the  skies ; 

A  wanderer  with  men, 
It  turns  its  longing  eyes 

To  find  that  home  again. 

But  there  are  forms  so  bright, 
So  fair,  they  seem  its  own; 

They  glow,  like  stars  at  nighty 
When  clouds  away  have  flown. 


52 

And  there  we  fondly  turn, 

And  think,  that  love's  pure  fire 

Will  ever  brightly  burn, 
The  spirit's  vestal  pyre. 

But  O  !  how  short  the  light, 
How  soon  it  fades  away; 

And  all  our  heart's  delight, 

Enchantments  —  where  arc  they  : 

The  glow,  the  bloom,  are  fled, 

O  !  never  to  return  ; 
And  hope  to  heav'n  has  sped, 

For  love  was  made  to  mourn. 


SONG. 

O  !  PURE  is  the  wind, 

As  it  blows  o'er  the  mountain, 
And  clear  is  the  wave, 

As  it  flows  from  the  fountain  ; 
And  sweet  are  the  flowers 

In  the  green  meadow  blooming; 
And  gay  are  the  bowers, 

When  the  soft  air  perfuming. 
O!  go,  dearest,  go 

To  the  heath,  and  the  mountain, 
Where  the  blue  violets  blow 

On  the  brink  of  the  fountain  ; 


53 

Where  nothing,  but  death, 
Our  affection  can  sever; 

And  till  life's  latest  breath 
Love  shall  bind  us  for  ever. 

O !  bright  is  the  morn, 

When  it  breaks  on  the  valley, 
And  shrill  is  the  horn, 

When  the  wild  huntsmen  sally; 
And  clear  shines  the  dew, 

As  the  hounds  hurry  o'er  it ; 
And  light  blows  the  wind, 

As  the  sail  flies  before  it. 
O !  go,  dearest,  go,  &c. 

O !  soft  is  the  mist, 

When  it  curls  round  the  island; 
And  dark  is  the  cloud, 

As  it  hangs  on  the  highland ; 
And  sweet  chimes  the  rill, 

O'er  the  white  pebble  flowing; 
And  quick  glides  the  boat 

O'er  the  smooth  water  rowing. 
O!  go,  dearest,  go,  &c. 

O !  fleet  is  the  deer 

Through  the  blue  heather  springing; 
And  loud  is  the  shout 

Through  the  wild  valley  ringing; 


54 

And  soft  is  the  flute 

O'er  the  lake  faintly  sighing, 
When  the  wide  air  is  mute, 

And  the  night-wind  is  dying. 
O!  go,  dearest,  go,  &c. 

O !  go,  dearest,  go 

To  the  heath  and  the  mountain ; 
Where  the  heart  shall  be  pure> 

As  the  clear-flowing  fountain; 
Where  the  soul  shall  be  free, 

As  the  winds,  that  blow  o'er  us; 
And  the  sunset  of  life 

Smile  in  beauty  before  us. 

O !  go,  dearest,  go 
To  the  heath,  and  the  mountain, 

Where  the  blue  violets  blow 
On  the  brink  of  the  fountain; 
Where  nothing,  but  death, 
Our  affection  can  sever; 

And  till  life's  latest  breath 
Love  shall  bind  us  for  ever. 


Translation  of  the  Latin  Ode  in  the  Boston  Pmc  Book,  No,  2 
"  VER>"  by  E.  J.  Lorin§. 

WINTER  now  has  flown  away, 
And  the  snow  has  left  the  hills  ^ 


55 

Spring,  with  cheek  all  flush'd  and  gay, 
Now  her  urn  with  fragrance  fills. 

Now  the  ploughman's  heart  is  high, 
As  he  drives  his  team  along, 

Turning  every  furrow  by 
To  the  melody  of  song. 

Now  the  meadow  laughs  with  flow'rs, 
And  the  woods  a  balsam  pour; 

Zephyrs  breathe  through  rosy  bow'rs, 
Where  they  nod  along  the  shore. 

Now  the  brook,  that  lately  stole 
Murmuring  in  an  icy  chain, 

Freshens,  as  its  waters  roll, 

With  sweet  waves,  the  grassy  plain. 

Now  the  pastured  bullocks  drink, 
Where  full  rivers  kiss  their  brim  5 

And  where  poplars  crown  the  brink, 
Rustic  flutes  and  voices  hymn. 

Now  the  girls,  in  festal  glee, 
Garlanded  with  roses,  play  ; 

Gathering  blossoms,  like  the  bee, 
Light  they  sport  the  summer  day. 


When  she  thus,  on  Enna's  plain, 
Crown'd  with  myrtle,  chanc'd 


56 

Pluto,  from  her  frighted  train, 
Stole  the  idol  of  his  love. 

Fairest  Spring!  at  thy  return, 

Meadows  breathe  the  balm  of  flow'rs, 
And  the  wheels  of  day's  god  burn 

Brightest  in  the  train  of  hours. 


THE  SABBATH.    A  SAPPHIC. 

SWEET  is  the  morning,  when  the  Sabbath-day  dawns, 
And  earth  and  sky  spread  lovelier  before  me; 
When  not  a  breath  stirs,  in  its  whispering  motion, 

Garden  or  forest, 

Which  does  not  seem  to  partake  in  the  holy 
Peace  of  the  pure  hearts,  where  passion  slumbers, 
Care  is  composed,  and  the  thoughts  all  awaken 

Bright  with  devotion. 

Sweeter  the  lark  sings  on  that  sunny  morning, 
Livelier  the  wren  chirps  round  the  shingled  cottage, 
Deeper  the  robin  swells  his  throat,  and  pours  forth 

Hymns  to  his  Maker. 
Sweetly  the  bell  sounds  far  in  the  distance, 
Rising  and  falling  with  the  winds,  and  rolling 
Over  hill  and  mountain,  like  the  tones,  that  summon 

Pure  souls  to  heav'n. 


57 

Sweet  comes  the  music  of  the  rustic  voices, 
When  in  the  oak  grove,  or  the  low-brow'd  temple, 
Hymning  and  praising  HIM,  whose  name  is  HOLY, 

Hearts  glow  with  rapturev 

Sweet  is  the  clear  tone,  where  the  breath  of  incense, 
Longings  of  clean  hearts,  pray'rs  by  pure  lips  spoken, 
Swell  on  the  light  winds,  through  the  arching  branches^ 

Sweet  as  when  organs, 

In  the  dark  choir  of  the  lofty  vaulted  minster, 
Pour  forth  the  deep  stream  of  harmony,  and  roll  round 
Pillar  and  altar,  fretted  roof  and  tall  arch, 

Sounds,  like  the  echoes, 

Which,  in  the  still  night,  after  storms  have  beaten 
Wild  on  the  roof-tree,  round  the  distant  mountains, 
Mellow  but  majestic,  send  on  the  soothM  ear 

Calmness  and  slumber. 

Sweet  is  the  Sabbath  to  the  heart,  who  loves  it, 
A.S  the  day,  when  heavWs  gates  opened  on  this  dark 

world, 
When  the  KING  OP  GLORY,  mounted  on  a  bright  cloud. 

Conquering  ascended. 


O !  HAD  I  the  wings  of  a  swallow,  I'd  fly 

Where  the  roses  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long, 

Where  the  landscape  is  always  a  feast  to  the  eye, 
And  the  bills  of  the  warblers  are  ever  in  song; 

O !  then  I  would  fly  from  the  cold  and  the  snow, 
And  liie  to  the  land  of  the  orange  and  vine, 


58 

And  carol  the  winter  away  in  the  glow,, 
•     That  rolls  o'er  the  ever  green  bow'rs  of  the  line. 

Indeed,  I  should  gloomily  steal  o'er  the  deep, 

Like  the  storm-loving  petrel,  that  skims  there,  alone; 
I  would  take  me  a  dear  little  martin  to  keep 

A  sociable  flight  to  the  tropical  zone : 
How  cheerily,  wing  by  wine,  over  the  sea 

AVe  would  fly  from  the  dark  clouds  of  winter  away, 
And  for  ever  our  song  and  our  twitter  should  be, 

"  To  the  land  where  the  year  is  eternally  gay." 

We  would  nestle  awhile  in  the  jessamine  bow'rs, 

And  take  up  our  lodge  in  the  crown  of  the  palm, 
And  live,  like  the  bee,  on  its  fruits  and  its  flow'rs, 

That  always  are  flowing  with  honey  and  balm; 
And  there  we  would  stay,  till  the  winter  is  o'er, 

And  April  is  chequerM  with  sunshine  and  rain— 
O !  then  we  would  flit  from  that  far-distant  shore 

Over  island  and  wave  to  our  country  again. 

How  light  we  would  skim,  where  the  billows  are  rolPd 

Through  clusters  that  bend  with  the  cane  and  the  lime, 
And  break  on  the  beaches  in  surges  of  gold, 

When  morning  comes  forth  in  her  loveliest  prime : 
We  would  touch  for  a  while,  as  we  travers'd  the  ocean, 

At  the  islands  that  echo'd  to  Waller  and  Moore, 
And  winnow  our  wings  with  an  easier  morion 

Through  the  breath  of  the  cedar  that  blows  from  th^ 
shore. 


59 

And  when  we  had  rested  our  wings,  and  had  fed 

On  the  sweetness  that  comes  from  the  juniper 

groves, 
By  the  spirit  of  home  and  of  infancy  led, 

We  would  hurry  again  to  the  land  of  our  loves; 
And  when  from  the  breast  of  the  ocean  would  spring, 

Far  off  in  the  distance,  that  dear  native  shore, 
In  the  joy  of  our  hearts  we  would  cheerily  sing, 

"  No  land  is  so  lovely,  when  winter  is  o'er." 


THE.  LAND  OK  THE  BLEST. 

THE  sunset  is  calm  on  the  face  of  the  deep, 

And  bright  is  tin-  last  took  of  day  in  the  west, 
And  broadly  the  beams  of  its  parting  glance  sweep, 

Like  the  path  that  conducts  to  the  land  of  the  blest: 
All  golden  and  green  is  the  sea,  as  it  flows 

In  billows  just  heaving  its  tide  to  the  shore; 
And  crimson  and  blue  is  the  sky,  as  it  glows 

With  the  colours,  which  tell  us  that  daylight  is  o'er. 

I  sit  on  a  rock,  that  hangs  over  the  wave, 

And  the  foam  heaves  and  tosses  its  snow-wreaths 

below, 
And  the  flakes,  gilt  with  sun-beams,  the  flowing  tide 

pave, 

Like  the  gems  that  in  gardens  of  sorcery  grow: 
1  sit  on  the  rock,  and  I  watch  the  light  fade 
Still  fainter  and  fainter  away  in  the  west, 


60 

And  I  dream,  I  can  catch,  through  the  mantle  of  shade, 
A  glimpse  of  the  dim,  distant  hind  of  the  blest. 

And  I  long  for  a  home  in  that  land  of  the  soul, 

Where  hearts  always  warm  glow  with  friendship  and 

love, 
And  days  ever  cloudless  still  cheerily  roll, 

Like  the  age  of  eternity  blazing  above: 
There,  with  friendships  unbroken,  and  loves  ever  true, 

Life  flows  on,  ono  gay  dream  of  pleasure  and  rest; 
And  green  is  the  fresh  turf,  the  sky  purely  blue, 

That  mantle  and  arch  o'er  the  land  of  the  blest. 

The  last  line  of  light  is  now  crossing  the  sea, 

And  the  first  star  is  lighting  its  lamp  in  the  sky; 
It  seems  that  a  sweet  voice  is  calling  to  me, 

Like  a  bird  on  that  pathway  of  brightness  to  fly : 
"  Far  over  the  wave  is  a  green  sunny  isle, 

Where  the  last  cloud  of  evening  now  shines  in  the  west; 
'Tis  the  island  that  spring  ever  woos  with  her  smile j 

O  !  seek  it — the  bright  happy  land  of  the  blest," 


RETROSPECTION. 

THERE  are  moments  in  life,  which  are  never  forgot, 
Which  brighten,  and  brighten,  as  time  steals  away; 

They  give  a  new  charm  to  the  happiest  lot, 

And  they  shine  on  the  gloom  of  the  loneliest  day: 


61 

These  moments  are  hallow'd  by  smiles  and  by  tears, 
The  first  look  of  love,  and  the  last  parting  given; 

As  the  sun,  in  the  dawn  of  his  glory,  appears, 

And  the  cloud  weeps  and  glows  with  the  rainbow  in 
heav'n. 

There  arc  hours — there  are  minutes,  which  memory 
brings, 

Like  blossoms  of  Eden,  to  twine  round  the  heart ; 
And  as  time  rushes  by  on  the  might  of  his  wings, 

They  may  darken  awhile,  but  they  riever  depart: 
O !  these  hallowM  remembrances  cannot  decay, 

But  they  come  on  the  soul  with  a  magical  thrill; 
And  in  days  that  are  darkest,  they  kindly  will  stay, 

And  the  heart,  in  its  last  throb,  will  beat  with  them  still. 

They  come,  like  the  dawn  in  its  loveliness,  now, 

The  same  look  of  beauty,  that  shot  to  my  soul; 
The  snows  of  the  mountain  are  bleaclrd  on  her  brow. 

And  her  eyes,  in  the  blue  of  the  firmament,  roll: 
The  roses  are  dim  by  her  cheek's  living  bloom, 

And  her  coral  lips  part,  like  the  opening  of  flowers; 
She  moves  through  the  air  in  a  cloud  of  perfume, 

Like  the  wind  from  the  blossoms  of  jessamine  bowers. 

From  her  eye's  melting  azure  there  sparkles  a  rlame, 
That  kindled  my  young  blood  to  extacy's  glow; 

She  speaks — and  the  tones  of  her  voice  are  the  same, 
As  would  once,  like  the  wind-harp,  in  melody  flow: 
6 


62 

That  touch,  as  her  hand  meets  and  mingles  with  mine, 
Shoots  along  to  my  heart,  with  electrical  thrill ; 

"Twas  a  moment,  for  earth  too  supremely  divine, 

And  while  life  lasts,  its  sweetness  shall  cling  to  me  still. 

We  met — and  we  drank  from  the  crystalline  well, 

That  flows  from  the  fountain  of  science  above; 
On  the  beauties  of  thought  we  would  silently  dwell, 

Till  we  look'd — though  we  never  were  talking  of  love: 
We  parted—the  tear  glisten 'd  bright  in  her  eye, 

And  her  melting  hand  shook,  as  I  dropp'd  it — for  ever; 
O !  that  moment  will  always  be  hovering  by, 

Life  may  frown — but  its  light  shall  abandon  me — 
never. 


SILENT  she  stood  before  me,  in  the  light 
And  majesty  of  beauty;  and  her  eye 
Was  teeming  with  the  visions  of  her  soul- 
She  stood  before  me  in  a  veil  of  white, 

The  image  of  her  bosom's  purity, 
And  loveliness  enveloped  her,  as  bright, 

As  when,  at  set  of  sun,  the  clouds  unroll. 
Pavilioning  the  dusky  throne  of  night. 

There  is  a  spirit  in  the  kindling  glance 
Of  pure  and  lofty  beauty,  which  doth  quell 
Each  darker  passion ;  and,  as  heroes  fell 

Before  the  terror  of  Minerva's  lance, 


So  beauty,  armM  with  virtue,  bows  the  soul 
With  a  commanding,  but  a  sweet  control, 
Making  the  heart  all  holiness  and  love; 
And  lifting  it  to  worlds  that  shine  above, 
Until,  subdued,  we  humbly  bend  before 
The  idol  of  our  worship,  to  adore. 


TT  was  the  hour  of  moonlight — and  the  bells 
Had  rung  their  curfew  tones,  and  they  were  still 
The  echo  died  around  the  distant  hill, 

Sinking  in  faint  and  fainter  fulls  and  swells. 
Accordant  with  the  fitful  wind,  that  blew 
Over  the  new-mown  meadow,  where  the  dew 

Stood  twinkling  on  the  closely  shaven  stems, 

Glittering  as  'twere  a  carpet  sown  with  gems; 

And  from  the  winding  river  there  arose 

A  mist,  that  curl'd  in  volumM  folds,  and  gave 
A  snowy  mantle  to  the  stealing  wave, 

Like  that  which  fancy,  love-enchanted,  throws 

Over  the  form,  it  doats  on  with  a  feeling 
Of  most  endeared  fondness,  blind  to  all, 

That  is  not  light  and  loveliness,  concealing 
The  tints  of  weakness  with  a  darkest  pall : 

And  as  the  moon,  descending  on  the  cloud, 
(Jives  it  a  rainbow  livery,  and  hues 
All  softness  and  all  beauty,  so  imbues 
The  fond  eye  of  affection  with  all  charms 

The  image  of  its  awe:  and  he  is  proud, 

A)  e?  prouder  than  the  proudest,  when  his  arais 


64 

Around  that  form  of  loveliness  are  flung, 
Arid  when  those  melting  eyes  are  on  him  hung, 
And  when  those  lips  are  moving  in  sweet  tones, 
That  tell,  whatever  the  words  he,  that  she  owns 
No  other  for  her  love — and  then  the  sigh 
Stntsreles  within  her  bosom,  and  her  eye 
Ts  wet  with  rising  tears,  and  then  the  smile 
Pliiys  sweetly  on  her  parting  lips  awhile, 
And  then  she  hangs  upon  his  arm,  and  tells, 
Her  heart  how  happy — and  that  fond  heart  swells 
To  give  its  feelings  utterance,  and  she  sings 
Sweetly,  as  when  the  lark  at  morning  springs 
From  out  a  dewy  thicket,  and  away 
Winnows  his  easy  flight  to  meet  the  day; 

And  thus  their  eyes  are  blended,  and  they  gaze 
A  moment  on  each  other,  and  then  turn 
To  where  the  countless  fires  of  ether  burn, 

And  look  from  heav'n  with  soft  and  soothing 
A  moment  with  uplifted  brow  they  pour 
The  swelling  current  of  devotion  o'er, 
And  then  descending  from  that  upward  flight, 
Again  their  eyes  in  tender  looks  unite, 
Again  they  speak  in  under  tones,  as  still 
As  are  the  winds  that  rustle  on  the  hill, 
Then  side  by  side  in  links  of  fondness  prest 
Steal  silently  unto  their  hullow'd  rest. 


65 


HE  comes  not — f  have  watch'd  the  moon  go  down, 

But  yet  he  comes  not — Once  it  was  not  so. 

He  thinks  not  how  these  bitter  tears  do  flow. 
The  while  he  holds  his  riot  in  that  town. 
Yet  he  will  come,  and  chide,  and  I  shall  weep ; 
And  he  will  wake  my  infant  from  its  sleep, 

To  blend  its  feeble  wailing  with  my  tears. 
O !  how  I  love  a  mother's  watch  to  keep, 

Over  those  sleeping  eyes,  that  smile,  which  cheers 
My  heart,  though  sunk  in  sorrow,  fix'd  and  deep. 
I  had  a  husband  once,  who  lov'd  me — now 
He  ever  wears  a  frown  upon  his  brow, 
And  feeds  his  passion  on  a  wanton's  lip, 
As  bees,  from  laurel  flowers,  a  poison  sip; 

But  yet,  I  cannot  hate — O !  there  were  hours, 
When  1  could  hang  for  ever  on  his  eye, 
And  time,  who  stole  with  silent  swiftness  by, 

Strewed,  as  he  hurried  on,  his  path  with  flowers. 
I  lov'd  him  then — he  lov'd  me  too — My  heart 

Still  finds  its  fondness  kindle,  if  he  smile; 
The  memory  of  our  loves  will  ne'er  depart; 
And  though  he  often  sting  me  with  a  dart, 

Venom'd  and  barb'd,  and  waste  upon  the  vile 
Caresses,  which  his  babe  arid  mine  should  share; 
Though  he  should  spurn  me,  I  will  calmly  bear 
His  madness— and  should  sickness  come,  and  Jay 
6* 


66 

Its  paralyzing  hand  upon  him,  then 
f  would,  with  kindness,  all  my  wrongs  repay, 
Until  the  penitent  should  weep,  and  say, 

How  injured,  and  how  faithful  I  had  been. 


THERE  is  a  spot*— a  quiet  spot,  which  blooms 
On  earth's  cold,  heartless  tlcsert — It  hath  power 
To  give  a  sweetness  to  the  darkest  hour, 
As,  in  the  starless  midnight,  from  the  rose, 
Now  dipp'd  in  dew,  a  sweeter  perfume  flows; 
And  suddenly  the  wand'rer's  heart  assumes 
New  courage,  and  he  keeps  his  course  along, 
Cheering  the  darkness  with  a  whisper'd  song: 
At  every  step  a  purer,  fresher  air 
Salutes  him,  and  the  winds  of  morning  bear 
Soft  odours  from  the  violet  beds  and  vines; 
And  thus  he  wanders,  till  the  dawning  shines 
Above  the  misty  mountains,  and  a  hue 
Of  vermeil  blushes  on  the  cloudless  blue, 
Like  health  disporting  on  the  downy  cheek- 
It  is  time's  fairest  moment — as  a  dove 
Shading  the  earth  with  azure  wings  of  love, 
The  sky  broods  o'er  us,  and  the  cool  winds  speak 
The  peace  of  nature,  and  the  waters  fall, 
From  leap  to  leap,  more  sweetly  musical, 
\nd,  from  the  cloudy  bosom  of  the  vale, 
Come,  on  the  dripping  pinions  of  the  gale, 


67 

The  simple  melody  of  early  birds 

Wooing  their  mates  to  love,  the  low  of  herds, 

And  the  faint  bleating  of  the  new  born  lambs 

Pursuing,  with  light-bounding  step,  their  dams; 

Again  the  shepherd's  wiiislle,  and  the  bark, 

That  shrilly  answers  to  his  call;  and  hark! 

As  o'er  the  trees  the  golden  rays  appear, 

Bursts  the  last  joyous  song  of  chanticlere, 

Who  moves,  in  stately  pomp,  before  his  train. 

Till,  from  his  emerald  neck,  and  burnish'd  wings, 

The  playful  light  a  dazzling  beauty  flings, 

As  if  the  stars  had  lit  their  fires  again — 

So  sweetly,  to  the  wand'rer  o'er  the  plain, 

The  rose,  the  jessamine,  and  every  flower, 

That  spreads  its  leafets  in  the  dewy  hour, 

And  catches,  in  its  bell,  night's  viewless  rain, 

In  temper'd  balm  their  rich  aroma  shower; 

And  with  this  charm  tin1  morning,  on  his  eye, 

Looks  from  her  portals  in  the  eastern  sky, 

And  throws  her  blushes  o'er  the  sleeping  earth, 

And  wakes  it  to  a  fresh  and  lovely  birth — 

O!  such  a  charm  adorns  that  fairest  spot, 

Where  noise  and  revelry  disturb  me  not, 

But  all  the  spirits,  that  console  me,  come, 

And  o'er  me  spread  a  peaceful  canopy, 

And  stand  with  messages  of  kindness  by, 

And  one  sweet  dove,  with  eyes  that  look  mebless'dj 

Sits  brooding  all  my  treasures  in  her  nest 

Without  one  slightest  wish  the  world  to  roam, 

Or  leave  me,  and  that  quiet  dwelling — home. 


A  PICTURE, 

/ 

SCENE—  The  Valley  of  the  Cat  skill  River  north  of  the  Cattkill 

Mountains. 

THE  glories  of  a  clouded  moonlit  night—- 
An union  of  wild  mountains,  and  dark  storms 
Gather'mg  around  their  summits,  or  in  forms 

Majestic,  moving  far  away  in  light, 

Like  pillar'd  snow,  or  spectres  wreath'd  in  flame — 
Meanwhile  around  the  distant  peaks  a  flow 
Of  moonlight  settles,  seeming  from  below, 

Above  the  mountain's  rude  gigantic  frame, 
An  island  of  the  heart,  a  home  of  bright. 
Unsullied  souls,  who,  clad  in  purest  white, 

Their  bosoms  stainless  as  their  mantles,  play 
Around  the  gilded  rocks,  and  snowy  lawns, 
And  azure  groves,  in  choirs  like  bounding  fawns 

Around  the  throne  of  some  imperial  fay — 

Again  the  dark  clouds  brood  below;  their  fold 
A  moment  shrouds  the  mountain  in  dun  shade, 

Like  midnight  blackness  from  a  crater  roll'd, 
And  flashing,  as  the  glimmering  of  a  blade 

Amid  the  wreaths  of  war-smoke,  lightnings  quiver, 

And  crackling  bolts  the  oak's  bent  branches  shiver. 
And  rumbling  echoes  from  the  hollow  glens 
Roar,  like  the  voice  of  lions  in  their  dens 

Awing  the  silent  desert — then  the  cloud, 

Careering  on  the  whirlwind,  lifts  its  shroud 


69 

From  off  yon  soaring  pinnacle,  and  sweet, 

Soft  moonlight  there  is  sleeping,  like  the  ray, 

Whose  flashes  on  a  chequer'd  fountain  play 
Light  as  the  twinkling  glance  of  fairies'  feet, 

Or  brood  in  burnish'd  brightness  on  the  stream, 
Or  kiss  the  tufted  bank  of  dewy  flowers, 

As  if  consoling,  in  his  boyish  dream, 
Her  shepherd  through  her  own  still  magic  hours—- 
Such is  the  brightness  on  those  rocky  towers; 

And  rising  in  an  arch  of  double  height, 
Soaring  away  beyond  that  cone,  the  sky 

Smiles  to  the  harmonizing  touch  of  light, 
Like  the  blue  iris  of  a  joyous  eye — 

The  moon  is  there  in  glory,  and  the  stars 
Shrink  from  her  fuller  splendour,  and  grow  dim 

Behind  the  veil  of  her  effulgence. — Airs, 
As  if  from  Eden  breathing,  blow;  clouds  swim, 
Foamlike  and  fleecy,  round  the  landscape's  brim; 
And  heaving  like  a  storm-swoln  billow's  crest, 
Rolls  the  wild  tempest  in  the  darken'd  west, 
Its  Hashes  twinkling  through  the  gloom,  its  peals 

Bellowing  amid  the  purple  glens;  the  rain, 
Scudding  along  the  forest,  bears  the  bow 
Wreath'd  round  the  flying  storm-cloud,  as  it  steals 

Stiller  and  stiller  through  the  night — the  stain 
Of  braided  colours,  in  a  softer  glow, 
Bends  o'er  the  foaming  river  its  tall  arch, 
As  if  the  spirits  of  the  air  might  march 
From  mountain  on  to  mountain,  and  look  down, 
In  triumph,  from  the  picturM  circle's  crown, 


70 

On  hamlets  wrapp'd  in  slumber,  meadows  green 

And  gemm'd  with  rain-drops,  woods,  whose  leaves  are 

bow'd 

With  the  dissolving  richness  of  the  cloudj 
And  brown  brooks  flashing  down  the  hills,  and  pouring 

Their  tribute  to  the  master  stream,  which  wheels 
Through  the  rude  valley,  foaming,  tumbling,  roaring, 

And  on  the  lonely  wanderer,  who  steals 
Abroad  iu  silence  to  that  echoing  shore, 
And  gazing  on  the  mad  wave,  and  the  sky, 
Which  arches  o'er  the  universe  on  high, 
And  on  the  flying  cohorts  of  the  storm, 
Hiding  their  frowns  behind  a  seraph's  form, 
With  soul  subdued,  and  aw'd,  enchanted  eye, 
Can  only  bow  before  them  and  adore. 


The  following  effusion  may  serve  to  explain  one  of  the  myste- 
ries of  mythology — the  location  of  heaven  above  us. 

I  HAD  been  sitting  at  a  feast  of  souls, 
A  banquet  of  pure  spirits,  where  the  thought 
Spoke  on  the  eloquent  tongue,  and  in  the  eye's 
Gay  sparkle,  and  the  ever-changing  play 
Of  feature,  like  the  twinkling  glance  of  waves 
Beneath  the  summer  noonlight.     I  walked  forth; 
Tt  was  a  night  in  autumn,  and  the  moon 
Was  visible  through  clouds  of  opal,  lac'd 
With  gold  and  carmine — such  a  silent  night 


71 

As  fairies  love  to  dance  and  revel  in, 

When  winds  are  hush'd,  and  leaves  are  Still,  and 

waves 

Are  sleeping  on  the  waters,  and  the  hum 
And  stir  of  life  reposing.     There  was  spread 
Before  my  sight  a  smooth  and  glossy  bay, 
Mirror  d  in  silver  brightness,  and  the  chime 
Of  rippling  waters  on  its  pebbles,  broke 
Alone  the  quietude  that  fill'd  the  air: 
But  when  the  tremulous  heaving  of  the  deep, 
Far  off,  along  its  sandy  barriers,  rose 
And  faintly  echoed,  as  the  fitful  gust 
Ruffled  the  placid  surface  gluss'd  below; 
Or,  at  the  call  of  night-birds,  where  they  flew 
And  sported  in  the  sedges,  low  and  sweet, 
Like  swallows  twittering,  or  the  cooing  voice 
Of  ring-doves,  when  they  brood  their  callow  young. 
I  look'd  abroad  on  sea  and  mountain,  wild 
And  cultur'd  field  and  garden,  and  they  lay, 
Amid  the  stillness  of  the  cL 'incuts, 
Silent,  and  motionless,  and  beautiful, 
For  mist  and  moonlight  soften 'd  down  their  form?, 
And  cover d  them  with  dim  transparency, 
Like  beauty  melting  through  her  Coan  veil; 
A  wind  rose  from  the  ocean,  as  it  rollM 
Blue  in  the  boundless  distance,  and  it  swept 
The  curtain'd  clouds  athwart  the  moon,  and  gave 
The  undimm'd  azure  of  the  sky  to  light 
And  full  expansion.     There  my  eyes  were  turn'd, 
And  there  they  found  the  magic  influence, 


72 

Which  bound  them,  like  enchantment,  in  a  trance 

Of  most  exalted  feeling,  and  the  soul 

Was  lifted  from  the  body,  and  became 

A  portion  of  the  purity  and  light 

And  loveliness  of  that  cerulean  dome: 

And  it  imagined  on  the  mountain  top, 

Now  silvered  with  the  milder  beam  of  night, 

On  the  blue  arch,  and  on  the  rolling  moon, 

Careering  through  the  host  of  stars,  who  seem'd 

To  worship  at  her  coming,  and  put  out 

The  brightness  of  their  twinkling,  when  she  movM 

Serenely  and  majestically  by — 

On  these,  and  on  the  snowy  clouds,  that  hung 

Their  curtains  round  the  border  of  the  sky, 

Like  folds  of  silken  tapestry,  it  laid 

A  world  of  tenderness  and  purity, 

Tin-  quiet  habitation  of  the  heart, 

The  resting-place  of  those  impassion'd  soul*. 

Who  draw  their  inspiration  at  the  founts 

Of  nature,  flowing  from  that  theatre, 

Whose  scene  is  ever  shifting  with  the  play 

Of  seasons,  as  the  year  steals  swiftly  on, 

And  bears  us,  with  its  silent  foot,  away 

To  dissolution ;  ardent  souls,  who  love 

The  rude  rock  and  the  frowning  precipice, 

The  winding  valley,  where  it  lies  in  green 

Along  the  bubbling  riv'let,  and  the  plain, 

Parted  in  field  and  meadow,  redolent 

Of  roses  in  the  flow'ry  days  of  spring; 

And  in  the  nights  of  autumn,  of  the  breath     .. 


73 

Of  frosted  clusters,  hung  along  the  vines 
In  blue  and  gushing  festoons,  in  whose  rind 
The  drink  of  souls,  tin?  nectar  of  the  gods, 
Ripens  beneath  the  warm  unclouded  sky. 

T  lookM  upon  this  loveliness,  until 
A  dream  came  o'er  me,  and  the  firmament 
Was  animate,  and  spirits  fiH'd  the  air, 
Floating  on  snowy  wings,  and  rustled  by, 
Fanning  the  wind  to  coolness;  and  they  came 
On  messages  of  kindness,  and  they  sought 
Tin-  pillow  of  oVr-wearied  toil,  and  shook 
The  dews  of  Lethe  from  their  dripping  plumes 
Around  his  temples,  till  his  mind  forgot 
Its  sad  realities,  and  happy  dreams 
Rose  fair  and  sweet  around  him,  and  restored 
Awhile  the  spotless  hours  of  infancy, 
When  life  is  one  enchantment !     Thru  1  »eeinM 
R.ipt  in  a  trance  of  ecstasy,  and  forms 
Stood  thronging  round  supremely  beautiful, 
Whose  looks  were  full  of  tenderness,  whose  word* 
Were  glances,  and  whose  melodies  were  smiles; 
Who  utter'd  forth  the  feelings  of  the  soul 
In  that  expressive  dialect,  whose  tones 
No  tongue  can  syllable,  the  unseen  chain, 
Which  links  those  hearts  that  beat  in  unison. 
It  was  that  perfect  meeting,  whither  tend 
Our  spirits  in  their  better  hours,  and  find 
The  balm  of  wounded  bosoms,  where  they  dream 
7 


74 

The  eye  of  mercy  ever  smiles,  and  peace 
For  ever  broods— They  call  the  vision  heav'n. 

And  thus  hath  man  imagin'd  he  can  find 
The  region  of  his  angels,  and  his  gods,    -. 
And  blessed  spirits,  somewhere  in  the  sky; 
Or  in  the  moon,  to  which  the  Indian  turns, 
And  dreams  it  is  a  cool  and  quiet  land, 
Where  insect  cannot  stiiicr,  nor  tiger  prowl; 
Or  on  the  cone  of  mountains,  where  the  snow, 
Purest  of  all  material  things,  is  laid 
Upon  a  cloudy  pillow,  wreathM  around 
The  midway  height,  and  parting  from  this  world 
Olympus  and  the  Swerga's  holy  bowers. 


There  arc  many  youths,  and  some  men,  who  most  earnestly 
devote  thcmselvc*  to  solitary  studies,  from  the  mere  love 
of  the  pur-nit.  1  have  here  attempted  to  give  some  of  the 
causes  of  a  devotion,  which  appears  so  unaccountable  to  the 
stirring  world.* 

AND  wherefore  does  the  student  trim  his  lamp, 

And  watch  his  lonely  taper,  when  the  stars 

Are  holding  their  high  festival  in  heav'n, 

And  worshipping  around  the  midnight  throne? 

And  wherefore  does  he  spend  so  patiently, 

In  deep  and  voiceless  thought,  the  blooming  hours 

*  Written  for  an  album. 


75 

Of  youth  and  joyauncc,  when  ihe  blood  is  warm, 
And  the  heart  full  of  buoyancy  and  fire  ? 

The  sun  is  on  the  waters,  and  the  air 
Breathes  with  a  stirring  energy ;  the  plants 
Expand  their  leaves,  and  swell  their  buds,  and  blow. 
Wooing  the  eye,  and  stealing  on  the  soul 
With  perfume  and  with  beauty — Life  awakes; 
Its  wings  are  waving,  and  its  fins  at  play 
Glancing  from  out  the  streamlets,  and  the  voice 
Of  love  and  joy  is  warbled  in  the  grove; 
And  children  sport  upon  the  springing  turf, 
With  shouts  of  innocent  glee,  and  youth  is  fir'd 
With  a  diviner  passion,  and  the  eye 
Speaks  deeper  meaning,  and  the  cheek  is  fdPd, 
At  every  tender  motion  of  the  heart, 
With  purer  flushings ;  for  the  boundless  power, 
That  rules  all  living  creatures,  now  has  sway ; 
Jn  man  rcfin'd  to  holiness,  a  flame, 
That  purifies  the  heart  it  feeds  upon: 
And  y«?t  the  searching  spirit  will  not  blend 
With  this  rejoicing,  these  attractive  charms 
•Of  tin*  glad  season;  but,  at  wisdom's  shrine, 
Will  draw  pure  draughts  from  her  unfathom'd  well. 
And  nurse  the  never-dying  lamp,  that  burns 
JJrighter  and  brighter  on,  as  ages  roll. 

lie  has  his  pleasures — he  has  his  reward: 
For  there  is  in  the  company  of  books, 
The  liv  ing  souls  of  the  departed  sajrr, 


76 

And  bard,  and  hero;  there  is  in  the  roll 

Of  eloquence  and  history,  which  speak 

The  deeds  of  early  and  of  better  days ; 

In  these,  and  in  the  visions,  that  arise 

Sublime  in  midnight  musings,  and  array 

Conceptions  of  the  mighty  and  the  good, 

There  is  an  elevating  influence, 

That  snatches  us  awhile  from  earth,  and  lift* 

The  spirit  in  its  strong  aspirings,  where 

Superior  beings  fill  the  court  of  heaven. 

And  thus  his  fancy  wanders,  and  has  talk 

With  high  imaginings,  and  pictures  out 

Communion  with  the  worthies  of  old  time: 

And  tlu-n  he  listens  in  his  passionate  dreams, 

To  voices  in  the  silent  gloom  of  night, 

As  of  the  blind  Meonian,  when  he  stnick 

Wonder  from  out  his  harp-strings,  and  roll'd  OD, 

From  rhapsody  to  rhapsody,  deep  sounds, 

That  imitate  the  ocean's  boundless  roar; 

Or  tones  of  horror,  which  the  drama  spake, 

Reverberated  through  the  hollow  mask, 

Like  sounds,  which  rend  the  sepulchres  of  kings, 

And  tell  of  deeds  of  darkness,  which  the  grave 

Would  burst  its  marble  portals  to  reveal ; 

Or  his,  who  latest  in  the  holy  cause 

Of  freedom,  lifted  to  the  heavens  his  voice, 

Commanding,  and  beseeching,  and  with  all 

The  fervour  of  his  spirit  pour'd  abroad, 

Urging  the  sluggish  souls  of  self-made  slaves 

To  emulate  their  fathers,  and  be  free; 


77 

Or  those,  which  in  the  still  and  solemn  shades 
Ol%  Academus,  from  the  wooing  tongue 
Of  Plato,  charm'd  the  youth,  the  man,  the  sage* 
Discoursing  of  the  perfect  and  the  pure, 
The  beautiful  and  holy,  till  the  sound, 
That  play'd  around  his  eloquent  lips,  became 
The  honey  of  persuasion,  and  was  heard, 
As  oracles  amid  Dodona's  groves. 
With  eye  upturned  watching  the  many  stars, 
And  ear  in  deep  attention  fix'd,  he  sits, 
Communing  with  himself,  and  with  the  world, 
The  universe  around  him,  and  with  all 
The  beings  of  his  memory,  and  his  hopes  5 
Till  past  becomes  reality,  and  joys, 
That  beckon  in  the  future,  nearer  draw, 
And  ask  fruition — O!  there  is  a  pure, 
A  hallowM  feeling  in  these  midnight  dreams ; 
They  have  the  light  of  heaven  around  them,  breathe 
The  odour  of  its  sanctity,  and  are 
Those  moments  taken  from  the  sands  of  life, 
Where  guilt  makes  no  intrusion,  but  they  bloom, 
Like  islands  flowVing  on  Arabia's  wild. 
And  there  is  pleasure  in  the  utterance 
Of  pleasant  images  in  pleasant  words, 
Melting  like  melody  into  the  ear, 
And  stealing  on  in  one  continual  (low, 
Unruflled  and  unbroken — It  is  joy 
Ineffable,  to  dwell  upon  the  lines, 
That  register  our  feelings,  and  portray. 
In  colours  always  fresh  and  ever  new, 
7* 


78 

Emotions,  that  were  sanctified,  and  lov'd, 
As  something  far  too  tender,  and  too  pure, 
For  forms  so  frail  and  Aiding — I  have  sat, 
[n  days,  when  sensibility  was  young, 
And  the  heart  beat  resj>onsive  to  the  sight, 
The  touch,  and  music  of  the  lovely  one;     • 
Yes,  1  have  sat  entranc'd,  enraptur'd,  till 
The  spirit  would  have  utterance,  and  words 
I'lowM  full  of  hope,  and  love,  and  melody, 
The  gnshirigs  of  an  overburdened  heart 
Drunk  with  enchantment,  bursting  freely  forth, 
Like  fountains  in  the  early  days  of  spring. 


I  consider  Poetry  in  a  twofold  view,  n*  a  spirit  and  a  inanife* 
tation.  Perhaps  the  poetic  spirit  haH  never  been  more  justly 
•  I.  tiiird.  than  bv  Byron  in  his  Prophecy  of  Dante,  a  creation 

'•  From  overfecling  good  or  ill,  an  aim 
At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate." 

This  spirit  may  be  manifested  by  language,  metrical  or 
prose,  by  declamation,  by  musical  sounds,  by  expression, 
bv  gesture,  by  motion,  and  by  imitating  forms,  colours,  and 
shades;  so  that  literature,  oratory,  music,  physiognomy, 
acting,  and  the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture,  may  all  have 
their  poetry;  but  that  peculiar  spirit,  which  alone  gives  the 
great  life  and  charm  to  all  the  efforts  of  genius,  is  as  distinct 
from  the  measure  and  rhyme  of  poetical  composition,  as 
from  the  scientific  principles  of  drawing  and  perspective. 

THE  world  is  full  of  Poetry — the  air 
Is  living  with  its  spirit ;  and  the  waves 


79 

Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 

And  sparkle  in  its  brightness — Earth  is  veil'd, 

And  mantled  with  its  beauty;  and  the  walls, 

That  close  the  universe,  with  crystal,  in, 

Are  eloquent  with  voices,  that  proclaim 

The  unseen  glories  of  immensity, 

In  harmonies,  too  perfect,  and  too  high 

For  aught,  hut  beings  of  celestial  mould, 

And  speak  to  man,  in  one  eternal  hymn, 

Unfading  beauty,  and  unyielding  power. 

The  year  leads  round  the  seasons,  in  a  choir 
For  ever  charming,  and  for  ever  new, 
Blending  the  grand,  the  beautiful,  the  gay, 
The  mournful,  and  the  tender,  in  one  strain, 
Which  steals  into  the  heart,  like  sounds,  that  rise 
Far  off,  in  moonlight  evenings,  on  the  shore 
.Of  the  wide  ocean  resting  after  storms; 
Or  tones,  that  wind  around  the  vaulted  roof, 
And  pointed  arches,  and  retiring  aisles 
Of  some  old,  lonely  minster,  where  the  hand, 
Skilful,  and  mov'd  with  passionate  love  of  art. 
Plays  o'er  the  higher  keys,  and  bears  aloft 
The  peal  of  bursting  thunder,  and  then  calls, 
IJy  mellow  touches,  from  the  softer  tubes, 
Voices  of  melting  tenderness,  that  blend 
With  pure  and  gentle  musings,  till  the  soul, 
Commingling  with  the  melody,  is  borne, 
Rapt,  and  dissolved  in  ecstasy,  to  heaven. 


80 

Tis  not  the  chime  and  flow  of  words,  that  move 

In  measur'd  file,  and  metrical  array; 

'Tis  not  the  union  of  returning  sounds, 

Nor  all  the  pleasing  artifice  of  rhyme, 

And  quantity, and  accent,  that  can  give 

This  all-pervading  spirit  to  the  ear, 

Or  blend  it  with  the  moving*  of  the  soul. 

'Tis  a  mysterious  feeling,  which  combines 

Man  with  the  world  around  him,  in  a  chain 

Woven  of  flowers,  and  dipped  in  sweetness,  till 

He  taste  the  high  communion  of  his  thoughts, 

With  all  existences,  in  earth  and  heaven, 

That  meet  him  in  the  charm  of  grace  and  power. 

•'Tis  not  the  noisy  babbler,  who  displays, 

In  studied  phrase,  and  ornate  epithet, 

And  rounded  period,  poor  and  vapid  thoughts, 

Which  peep  from  out  the  cumbrous  ornaments, 

That  overload  their  littleness. — Its  words 

Are  ft-w,  but  deep  and  solemn;  and  they  break 

Frrsh  from  the  fount  of  feeling,  and  are  full 

Of  all  that  passion,  which,  on  Carmel,  fird 

The  holy  prophet,  when  his  lips  were  coals, 

His  language  wing'd  with  terror,  as  when  bolts 

Leap  from  the  brooding  tempest,  arm 'd  with  wrath, 

Commissioned  to  affright  us,  and  destroy. 

Passion,  when  deep,  is  still — the  glaring  eye, 
That  reads  its  enemy  with  glance  of  fire, 
The  lip,  that  curls  and  writhes  in  bitterness, 
The  brow  contracted,  till  its  wrinkles  hide 


31 

The  keen,  fix'd  orbs,  that  burn  and  flash  below, 

The  hand  firm-clench'd  and  quivering,  and  the  foot 

Planted  in  attitude  to  spring,  and  dart 

Its  vengeance,  an?  the  language,  it  employs. 

So  the  poetic  feeling  needs  no  words 

To  give  it  utterance ;  but  it  swells,  and  glows, 

And  revels  in  the  ecstasies  of  soul, 

And  sits  at  banquet  with  celestial  forms, 

The  beings  of  its  own  creation,  fair, 

And  lovely,  as  e'er  haunted  wood  and  wave, 

When  earth  was  peopled,  in  its  solitudes, 

With  nymph  and  naiad — mighty,  as  the  gods, 

Whose  palace  was  Olympus,  and  the  clouds, 

That  hung,  in  gold  and  flame,  around  its  brow 5 

Who  bore,  upon  their  features,  all  that  grand, 

And  awful  dignity  of  front,  which  bows 

The  eye  that  gazes  on  the  marble  Jove, 

Who  hurls,  in  wrath,  his  thunder,  and  the  god, 

The  image  of  a  beauty,  so  divine, 

So  masculine,  so  artless,  that  we  seem 

To  share  in  his  intensity  of  joy, 

When,  sure  as  fate,  the  bounding  arrow  sped, 

And  darted  to  the  scaly  monster's  heart. 

This  spirit  is  the  brezith  of  miture,  blown 
Over  the  sleeping  forms  of  clay,  who  else 
Doze  on  through  life  in  blank  stupidity, 
Till  by  its  blast,  as  by  a  touch  of  fire, 
They  rouse  to  lofty  purpose,  and  send  out, 
In  deeds  of  energy,  the  rage  within. 


82 

Its  seat  is  deeper  in  the  savage  breast, 
Than  in  the  man  of  cities;  in  the  child, 
Than  in  maturer  bosoms.     Art  may  prune 
Its  rank  and  wild  luxuriance,  and  may  train 
Its  strong  out-breakings,  and  its  vehement  gusts 
To  soft  refinement,  and  amenity; 
Cut  all  its  energy  has  vanished,  all 
Its  madd'ning,  and  commanding  spirit  gone, 
And  all  its  tender  touches,  and  its  tones 
Of  soul-dissolving  pathos,  lost  and  hid 
Among  the  nieusur'd  notes,  that  move  as  dead 
And  heartless,  as  the  puppets  in  a  show. 

Well  I  remember,  in  my  boyish  days, 

How  deep  the  feeling,  when  my  eye  look'd  forth 

On  nature,  in  her  loveliness,  and  storms. 

Flow  my  heart  gladden'd,  as  the  light  of  spring 

Came  from  the  sun  with  zephyrs,  and  with  showers, 

Waking  the  earth  to  beauty,  and  the  woods 

To  music,  and  the  atmosphere  to  blow, 

Sweetly  and  calmly,  with  its  breath  of  balm. 

O !  how  I  gaz'd  upon  the  dazzling  blue 

Of  summer's  heaven  of  glory,  and  the  waves, 

That  rolPd,  in  bending  gold,  oVr  hill  and  plain; 

And  on  the  tempest,  when  it  issued  forth, 

In  folds  of  blackness,  from  the  northern  sky, 

And  stood  above  the  mountains,  silent,  dark, 

Frowning  and  terrible;  then  sent  abroad 

The  lightning,  as  its  herald,  and  the  peal, 

That  roll'd,  in  deep,  deep  volleys,  round  the  hills, 


83 

The  warning  of  its  coming,  and  the  sound, 
That  usher'd  in  its  elemental  war^ 
And,  O!  I  stood,  in  breathless  longing  fix'd, 
Trembling,  and  yet  not  fearful,  as  the  clouds 
IleavM  their  dark  billows  on  the  roaring  winds, 
That  sent,  from  mountain  top,  and  bending  wood, 
A  longjioarse  murmur,  like  the  rush  of  waves, 
That  burst,  in  foam  and  fury,  on  the  shore. 

Nor  less  the  swelling  of  my  heart,  when  high 

Rose  the  blue  arch  of  autumn,  cloudless,  pure, 

As  nature,  at  her  dawning,  when  she  sprang 

Fresh  from  the  hand,  that  wrought  her ;  where  the  cyp 

Caught  not  a  speck  upon  the  soft  »erene, 

To  stain  its  deep  cerulean,  but  the  cloud, 

That  floated,  like  a  lonely  spirit,  there, 

White,  as  the  snow  of  Zemla,  or  the  foam, 

That  on  the  mid-sea  tosses,  cinctur'd  round, 

In  easy  undulations,  with  a  belt 

Woven  of  bright  Apollo's  golden  hair. 

Nor,  when  that  arch,  in  winter's  clearest  night, 

Mantled  in  ebon  darkness,  strowM  with  stars 

Its  canopy,  that  seem'd  to  swell,  and  swell 

The  higher,  as  I  ga/'d  upon  it,  till, 

Sphere  after  sphere  evolving,  on  the  height 

Of  heaven,  the  everlasting  throne  shone  through, 

In  glory's  full  effulgence,  and  a  wave, 

Intensely  bright,  roll'd,  like  a.  fountain,  forth 

Beneath  its  sapphire  pedesi.il,  and  stream;  d 

Down  the  long  ijaiaxy,  a  flood  of  snow, 


84 

Bathing  the  heavens  in  light,  the  spring,  that  gush'd, 

In  overflowing  richness,  from  the  breast 

Of  all-maternal  nature.     These  I  saw, 

And  felt  to  madness  ;  but  my  full  heart  gave 

No  utterance  to  the  ineffable  within. 

Words  were  too  weak;  they  were  unknown;  but  still 

The  feeling  was  most  poignant:  it  has  gone; 

And  all  the  deepest  How  of  sounds,  that  e'er 

Pour'd,  in  a  torrent  fulness,  from  the  tongue, 

Rich  with  the  wealth  of  ancient  bards,  and  stor'd 

With  all,  the  patriarchs  of  British  song 

Ilallow'd,  and  render'd  jflorious,  cannot  tell 

Those  feelings,  which  have  died,  to  live  no  more. 


SONNET. 

FAREWELL,  sad  flowers,  that  on  a  desert  blow, 
Farewell  !  I  pluck'd  you  from  the  muses'  bower, 
And  wove  you  in  a  garland,  which  an  hour 

Might  on  my  aching  eye  enchantment  throw,  — 

Your  leaves  are  pale  and  withered,  and  your  flow 
Of  perfume  wasted,  your  alluring  power 

1    Has  vanished  like  the  lleeting  April  shower; 

Too  lovely  flowers  to  spread  your  leaves  below  — 

Sweet  flowers!  though  wither  d,  all  the  joy,  I  know, 
Is,  when  I  breathe  your  balm,  your  wreath  intwine: 

And  earth  can  only  this  delight  bestow, 

That  sometimes  all  your  loveliness  is  mine  ; 
Vnd  then  my  fro/en  heart  awhile  will  plow, 
And  life  have  moments,  in  its  path,  divine! 


ESSAYS. 


"  Just  urn  tt  ttnacem  propositi  tn'rwn." 

WHAT  is  magnanimity?  what  is  that  nobleness  of  soul,  of 
which  so  much  is  said  and  written,  which  we  are  so  ready  to 
admire,  and.so  backward  to  imitate  ?  Is  it  merely  a  name,  or 
has  it  ah  actual  existence?  It  has  been  on  the  toncrm-.  of 
men  ever  since  Homer  spake  of  his  lion-hearted  heroes,  and 
the  Romans  of  their  Fabii  and  Catos.  Let  us  then  believe  it 
a  reality,  a  spirit,  which  has  been  abroad  in.  the  hearts  of  men, 
and  acting  in  the  bosoms  of,  ,qj  tp.ist,  a  fo\v.  Let  us  look 
upon  it  as  a  someihintr,  whirl,  .  an  be  i-  !i  and  imitated,  and 
on  which  it  is  good  to  ponder.  In  this  liberal  age,  all  men  arc 
allowed  to  form  and  express  their  opinions  freely.  I  shall 
therefore  be  allowed  lo  think  and  Virile,  even  on  such  a  sub- 
ject as  this.  Perhaps  I  may  find  it  difficult  to  use  the  cool 
and  deliberate  language  of  philosophy,  especially  on  so  lifting 
a  topic;  but  for  once  I  will  try. 

Magnanimity  is  a  habitual  elevation  of  mind,  arising  from 
a  sense  of  personal  worth,  and  a  just  estimation  of  human  na- 
lure.  It  is  an  absolute  and  a  relative  feeling:  relative  as  it  is 
a  consciousness  of  elevation  above  those  habits,  which  render 
others  contemptible;  and  absolute,  as  it  is  a  sense  of  approxi- 
mation towards  that  i<lml  of  moral  and  intellectual  excel- 
lence, which  the  mind  can  form.  In  some  more  favoured 
individuals,  it  seems  to  be  instinctive :  that  nice  sense  of  na- 
tural honour,  which  feels  the  least  approach  of  contamination, 
and  repels  it  with  indignant  energy.  But  in  others,  either 
from  an  original  weakness,  which  puts  them  in  perpetual  war- . 
fare  between  their  just  views  and  good  wishes,  and  their  de- 
8 


86 

picking  propensities,  or  from  a  defective  education,  which 
has  loft  its  early  and  indelible  taint  on  their  character,  this 
feeling  is  an  acquired  property,  learned  from  the  writings  and 
the  society  of  great  and  noble  spirits,  and  which  sometime*, 
from  a  deep  experience  of  the  bitter  evils  of  a  low  and  de- 
grading conduct,  is  more  active,  more  sensitive,  and  more 
towering,  than  that,  which  is  the  simple  gift  of  nature. 

We  often  sec  a  high  and  mighty  feeling  in  the  savage;  a 
feeling,  that  repels  every  idea  of  low  advantage,  and  scorns 
fo  triumph  over  the  weakness  of  a  fellow  creature.  This  H 
not  altogether  instinctive.  Rude  nations  often,  in  the  absence 
of  the  arts  of  civilization  and  luxury,  bestow  greater  attention, 
on  tho  culture  of  the  higher  feelings.  With  them  virtue  i« 
courage,  fortitude,  greatness.  The  cultivation  of  the  un- 
yiulding,  unbending  spirit,  which  leaves  no  opening,  by. 
which  others  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  weakness,  is  with  them  an 
object  o  fas  careful  attention,  as  with  us  the  cultivation  of  sci- 
ences that  enlarge  and  enrich  the  mind,  or  of  arts  that  soften 
and  adorn  the  manners.  The  brightest  examples  of  magna- 
nimity are  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  rude  nations.  Tho 
greatest  sacrifice  of  interest,  the  purest  simplicity  of  life,  and 
the  steadiest  and  firmest  energy  of  purpose,  must  be  looked 
for  in  those  periods,  when  wealth  and  luxury  had  made  little 
advance*,  and  when  men  were  estimated  more  by  their  per- 
sonal qualities,  than  by  circumstance  of  fortune.  The.  word 
chieftain,  in  Greek,  was  synonymous  with  excellent,  and  that 
excellence  was  made  to  consist  in  the  strong  and  manly  vir- 
tues,  in  true  magnanimity  of  soul.  Their  nobles  were,  at  first, 
men,  who,  by  the  superiority  of  their  character  and  conduct, 
had  gained  an  ascendency  over  poorer  spirits,  and  had  thrown 
around  themselves  the  sanctity  of  higher  beings.  They  were 
indeed  noble.  Theirs  was  a  nobility,  whose  patent  is  from 
God  Almighty,  whose  only  badge  is  a  pure,  a  generous,  and  a 
lofty  life ;  an  aristocracy,  that  always  has  existed,  and  I  hope 
and  trust,  always  will  exist;  the  aristocracy  of  talent,  of 


87 

knowledge,  and  of  virtue,  which  will  stand  unmoved  and  un- 
broken, like  the  brave  three  hundred,  among  crowds  of  de- 
graded and  effeminate  hirelings. 

Man  IIUH,  in  hi*  constitution,  a  twofold  nature:  one,  whose 
tendency  is  upward  ;  another,  \\  hose  tendency  is  downward. 
The  intellect,  the  taste,  and  the  kind  affections  constitute  the 
one;  the  appetites,  and  the  violent  and  selfish  passions  tin- 
other.  All  these  are  necessary  to  our  existence.  Those  pro- 
pensities, which  seem  to  us  base  in  themselves,  are  so  only 
from  their  abuse.  They  do  not  indeed  admit  of  cultivation. 
They  are  only  sentinels  on  the  watch  against  injuries,  which 
might  suddenly  destroy  us,  or  prompters  to  the  exercise  of 
those  functions,  without  which  the  animal  machine  must  stop 
its  motions.  They  have  their  natural  and  healthful  state,  and 
this  cannot  be  disturbed  without  doing  mischief.  As  they  arc 
at  the  first  dawn  of  life,  so  they  should  continue  throughout 
its  whole  progress.  They  ask  no  improvement ;  for  who  can 
improve  the  workmanship  of  the  Creator  ?  \Ve  cannot  teach 
the  taste  to  select  better  food,  nor  the  stomach  to  perform 
bettor  the  office  of  digestion.  What  the  palate  instinctively 
refuses,  it  is  cruelty  to  attempt  teaching  it  to  relish.  Here  is 
a  mistake,  \\hich  has  cost  many  a  child  his  health,  and  the 
happiness  of  his  life.  When  this  sentinel  to  one  appetite  has 
been  bribed  into  infidelity,  every  physical  guard  against  the 
most  degrading  vices  is  broken  down:  for  the  appetites  are 
linked  together  like  brethren ;  the  excitement  of  one  is  the 
instigation  of  the  others  ;  and  he,  who  early  initiates  a  child 
in  the  pleasures  of  the  palate,  can  only  look  forward  to  a  mad 
career  in  every  vice  that  degrades  and  destroys.  All  then, 
that  has  been  done  in  the  arts  of  luxury,  has  been  only  a. 
perversion,  not  an  improvement  on  the  ignorance  of  nature. 
Tin;  appetites  and  the  passions  should  be  left  as  they  were 
created,  or  they  are  corrupted.  We  must  here  return  to  the 
utter  simplicity  of  the  most  savage  life,  or  we  cannot  boast  of 
ihat  integrity  of  virtue,  of  which  the  human  powers  arc  ca- 
pable. 


But  it  is  not  &o  with  the  higher  nature  of  man.  That  is 
capable  of  great,  of  indefinite  improvement.  It  is  impossible 
to  fix  the  line,  beyond  which  it  can  go  no  farther.  This  is 
different  in  different  individuals;  for  every  man  has  dealt  out 
to  him  his  peculiar  measure  of  talent.  Only  one  general  rule 
can  be  laid  down  in  the  developement  of  the  higher  powers. 
Let  it  he  moderate.  Thin  word  contains  in  itself  the  grand 
urcanuin  of  all  solid  improvement  and  real  happiness.  The 
moderate,  the  regular,  aud  the  progressive  improvement  of 
our  ln-tfi-r  faculties,  and  the  dispensation  of  their  fruits  in 
promoting  the  happiness  of  others,  will  then  be  the  great  ob- 
ject of  every  noble  mind.  He  will  use  every  means  of  direcc 
advancement  in  his  truly  celestial  purpose,  and  shun  every 
thing,  which  can  retard  his  progress:  and  since  nothing  is  so 
deadly  to  growth  in  knowledge  and  virtue  as  sensuality  and 
selfishness,  he  will  ever  keep  a  dragon's  watch  against  those 
insidious  enemies,  and  feel  the  slightest  submission  to  them, 
us  a  reproach,  that  can  only  be  wiped  off  by  increased  exer- 
tion, and  a  wound,  whose  agony  tingles  through  his  vitals. 

In  the  first  place  then,  the  truly  magnanimous  man  with- 
draws from  every  thing  sensual  and  selfish,  and  lives  in  a 
purely  intellectual  and  moral  atmosphere.  Fie  considers  his 
senses  and  his  appetites,  as  made  for  no  other  purpose,  but 
the  preservation  of  life  and  health,  and  the  introduction  of  u 
knowledge  of  outward  things.  When  employed  for  the  mere 
purposes  of  pleasure  they  are  most  dangerously  abused;  for 
every  poignant  pleasure  is  an  undue  excitement,  and  with  un- 
erring certainty  saps  the  foundations  of  that  health,  on  which 
all  the  security  of  life,  the  purity  of  virtue,  and  the  vigour  of 
mind,  depend.  With  this  feeling,  he  is  perfectly  indifferent 
to  the  style  and  materials  of  his  food,  his  dress,  and  his  habi- 
tation, if  they  be  only  neat  and  healthful.  The  greatest  philo- 
sopher of  antiquity  was  remarkable  for  concinnity  in  all  things', 
in  dress,  in  manners,  in  thought  and  language ;  and  indeed  thi* 
is  a  sure  criterion  of  a  pure  and  elevated  mind.  Strong  genius 
iuuy  be  connected  with  cynic  negligence :  but  such  a  man  is 


89 

defective  in  that  magnanimity,  which  revolts  at  every  depart- 
ure from  strict  propriety.  Concinnity  will  then  be  a  firsi 
trait  in  the  character  of  a  truly  great  man.  This  regard  to 
ucatness  will  never  extend  lx»yond  the  simple  elegance  of  na- 
ture. Every  thing  affected  and  finical  he  will  abhor.  H<- 
will  not,  with  u  puritanic  strictness,  condemn  the  elegancie* 
of  polite  life.  He  will  consider  them  an  wholesome  fruit*  of 
taste,  so  long  as  they  are  marked  by  simplicity :  it  is  onl\ 
when  they  arc  debased  by  foppery,  that  he  will  condemn 
them.  There  will  always  be  present  to  such  a  mind  objects 
of  too  grand  and  overwhelming  an  interest,  to  allow  him  to 
take  a  deep  concern  in  the  fine  art.* ;  but  as  long  as  they  are 
kept  within  the  Iwunds  of  a  virtuous  propriety,  he  will  look 
upon  them  with  complacent  feelings,  and  consider  them  as 
means  of  calling  forth  our  better  nature,  and  of  elevating  us 
above  those  animal  propensities,  which  are  ever  stealing  on 
the  idle  and  unemployed. 

He  will  be,  in  every  thing,  exact.  Time  will  be  to  him  of 
inestimable  value,  the  wealth  of  life.  To  make  the  most  of 
the  allotted  period  of  existence,  he  will  lay  off  his  duties  with 
a  s  ictness  of  calculation,  that  will  leave  no  moments  to  run 
to  \va»tc.  He  will  consider  himself  endowed  with  great  and 
improvt  able  powers.  He  will  therefore  preserve,  with  all 
his  care,  that  health,  which  is  the  substratum  of  those 
powers,  and  employ,  with  the  exactest  diligence,  that  time, 
in  which  he  is  to  give  them  all  the  improvement,  this 
state  of  being  will  allow.  His  whole  life  will  be  one  course 
of  self-instruction,  and  he  will  terminate  his  education  only 
at  the  grave.  With  the  tenfold  agony  of  Titus,  he  will  ex- 
claim over  the  smallest  waste  of  this  most  precious  gift,  <;  I 
have  lost  an  hour."  His  mind  will  lie  alive  with  an  eager 
longing  for  till  philosophy.  There  will  ever  be  present  a 
curiosity  to  grasp  at  facts,  and  thoughts  unwearied  in  arrang- 
ing them  in  just  and  useful  principles.  He  would  be  rich  in 
all,  that  can  enlarge  his  sphere  of  intellectual  vision,  that  car. 

8* 


90 

reveal  the  purpose  of  hi«  being  and  the  powers  of  hit  nature, 
that  can  render  him  more  fitted  to  secure  hi*  own  happiness, 
and  promote  the  good  of  his  fellow  creatures,  and  that  can 
lift  him  from  that  pit  of  degradation,  where  he  sees  the 
crowd  for  ever  sinking,  mid  from  which  he  fiuds  it  so  hard  to 
escape. 

But  in  all  this  he  will  be  moderate.  Close  attention  to  pre- 
sent perceptions,  and  a  slow  and  sure  admission  of  them, 
will  characterize  the  whole  course  of  his  reflection*  and  stu- 
dies, lie  will  not  think  that  day  lost,  which  fixes  in  his  mind 
one  just  principle.  He  will  not  grasp  a  multitude  of  objects 
lit  once;  but  will  give  hi«  undivided  powers  to  one  truth  at 
one  time.  Uh.it  he  thus  learn*,  he  will  know  well;  and 
wliat  ho  once  knows,  he  will  hardly  forget:  for  his  knowledge 
u  ill  be  appropriated,  a  portion  of  bin  own  mind,  mixing  in  all 
his  reflections  with  the  readiness  of  instinct.  He  will  seek 
his  knowledge,  in  the  main,  from  nature;  though  he  will  not 
neglect  book*.  He  will  give  them  their  just  value.  He  will 
look  upon  them,  as  the  recorded  thoughts  of  other  men,  who 
went,  like  him,  in  the  last  resort,  to  nature.  Fie  will  weigh 
them  in  the  balance  of  his  judgment ;  and  if  he  finds  them 
coinciding  with  the  dictates  of  his  own  common  sense,  and 
with  the  contents  of  that  volume,  which  is  open  to  the  inspec- 
tion of  alt,  he  will  give  them  his  confidence,  and  store  them 
in  his  memory,  to  whatever  age,  or  nation,  or  party,  or  indi- 
\idual,  they  may  belong. 

But  his  moderation  will  be  active;  an  .ever  onward  course 
of  well-doing,  rapid  though  equable,  energetic  though  calm, 
lie  will  put  forth  his  greatest  strength  in  awakening  men 
from  the  apathy  of  vice  and  indolence,  and  guide  them,  when 
excited,  with  a  steadier  hand.  He  will  combine  in  himself 
(lie  rurely  blended  qualities  of  firmness  in  resisting,  ami 
quickness  in  execution.  If  he.  find  bin  fellow  citi/eiu*  ••lum- 
bering beneath  the  oppression  of  tyrannic  power,  he  will  put 
'.ni  th  the  fire  of  his  spirit  in  alarming  them ;  and  when  they 
.MI-  drawn  out  in  array  ;r_;;i'm*t  their  oppressors,  his  conduct 


91 

will  bo  cool  and  determined,  bracing  them  with  unshaken 
firmness  against  the  force,  that  would  subdue  them,  and  re- 
straining from  excesses  the  indignation  of  insulted  freemen. 
This  kind  of  character  is  indeed  rare.  We  have  more  usually 
seen  wholesome  revolutions  begun  by  one  class  of  men,  and 
perfected  by  another.  The  violent  sow  the  seed,  and  men  of 
calm  but  Arm  souls  reap  the  harvest.  It  was  Washington 
and  Franklin  who  guided  that  storm,  which  Warren  and 
Henry  roused.  These  men  of  ardent  and  enthusiastic  energy 
are  often  of  inestimable  value.  They  are  the  lightnings, 
which  are  sometimes  wanted  to  purify  the  moral  atmosphere. 
When  the  still  small  voice  of  the  man  of  gentle  virtues  is  una- 
vailing, they  waken  the  sinner  from  the  deep  sleep  of  hi-  vice*, 
and  draw  out  the  better  spirit,  buried,  as  it  is,  beneath  years 
of  accumulated  offending.  It  is  in  darker  and  more  depraved 
socictit-N,  that  such  men  are  needed.  They  are  violent  moral 
medicines  for  an  inveterate  disease.  When  the  populace  has 
become  servile,  degraded,  and  besotted ;  when  the  chill  slum- 
ber of  moral  death  is  stealing  over  a  nation,  then  it  is,  we 
can  hail  the  fanaticism  of  Whitefield,  as  an  angel  of  mercy. 

With  the  truly  magnanimous  man  the  word  ecstasy  has  no 
meaning.  It  is  indeed  a  standing  out  from  that  firm  and  de- 
termined course,  he  has  laid  down,  which  nothing  can  induce 
him  to  alter.  He  allows  no  rising  beyond  that  fulness  of 
soul,  which  is  permanently  consistent  with  our  nature  He 
knows  that  intemperate,  pleasures  are  only  transient  joys  pur- 
chased at  the  expense  of  lasting  sorrows.  He  knows,  that 
exactly  as  the  passions  «and  sensations  are  exalted,  will  be 
the  consequent  degree  of  depression.  He  looks  with  pitv  on 
those  devotees,  who  think  to  enjoy  the  raptures  of  heaven  in 
such  a  life  as  this ;  for  he  always  finds  them  ending  their  ca- 
reer in  exhaustion  and  premature  decay:  and  since  his  great 
aim  is  to  go  through  life  on  one  unbroken  level,  he  will  avoid 
every  lifting  of  the  spirit  above  its  common  measure,  as  one 
blow  in  a  sure  but  lingering  suicide.  He  stands,  like  a  rock 
in  the  midst  of  the  ocean,  looking  out  culm  and  unmoved  on 


92 

the  nrcllin?  and  sinking  of  the  waves  around  it,  bright  in  the 
sunshine  and  still  in  the  tempest. 

He  lives  not  for  himself,  but  for  the  world.  He  know*  his 
own  just  claims,  and  the  inherent  rights  of  every  creature. 
The  great  aim  of  his  life  is  to  preserve  the  settled  order  of 
nature.  He  looks  on  the  universe  with  an  eye,  that  would 
comprehend  it«  full  purposes,  and  every  glimpse  he  catches  of 
its  design,  he  treasures  up  as  a  law,  that  cannot  be  broken. 
He  therefore  looks  on  his  fellow  beings  with  the  eye  of  en- 
lightened benevolence ;  not  the  blind  yearning  of  a  morbid 
sensibility,  that  docs  more  harm,  than  good,  by  its  kindness, 
but  that  discriminating  charity,  which  is  certain  its  efforts  will 
tend  to  the  ultimate  improvement  of  its  object.  He  knows  his 
powers  are  limited,  and  therefore  his  charity  begins  at  home. 
Liberal  views  and  feelings,  good  wishes,  an  entire  avoidance 
of  every  appropriating  act,  which  might  impoverish  others  to 
rmich  his  own,  and  the  free  effusion  of  his  just  views  and 
wholesome  principles,  will  form  the  greater  portion  of  his 
foreign  benevolence.  At  home,  in  his  own  peculiar  society, 
in  his  slate,  or  nation,  he  will  cultivate  all  the  better  powers, 
he  will  exterminate  every  hubit,  that  corrupts,  distresses,  or 
destroys,  and  he  will  raise  an  impenetrable  bulwark  agaiiut 
;i11  foreign  encroachment.  11U  patriotism  will  be  confined  to 
tliia :  to  secure  to  his  own  citizens  their  just  and  natural 
rights.  Ik-  Hill  be  as  anxious  that  his  own  nation  leave  to 
other  nations  the  same  privilege  entire,  as  he  will  be  to  pro- 
tret  his  own  country  from  invasion.  He  will  therefore  never 
appear  in  arms,  but  in  national  and  self-defence. 

As  he  forms  a  just  view  of  the  entire  human  family,  he  will 
never  exalt  himself  above  his  just  rank.  He  will  never  allow 
another  to  rise  above  him ;  and  he  will  be  equally  unwilling  to 
rise  above  another.  He  knows,  that  the  superiority  of  his 
character  gives  him  an  ascendency ;  but  he  w  ill  employ  it  only 
in  lifting  others  to  his  own  level.  Above  all  things,  he  will 
scorn  to  take  advantage  of  the  weakness  of  another.  He  will 
therefore  never  be  rich  by  his  own  efforts  He  will  remember 


93 

the  ancient  proverb,  "  no  man  can  suddenly  grow  rich,  and  t* 
just."  He  will  place  his  dignity  in  himself,  and  not  in  the  pa* 
rade  around  him.  His  wants  will  be  few ;  for  he  will  be  tern* 
perate  both  in  body  and  mind.  He  will  not  need  a  rich  table; 
for  the  supper  of  Curius  would  satisfy  his  simple  appetite.  He 
will  not  need  a  rich  library :  for  he  will  read  few  books ;  but 
those  will  be  well  chosen,  and  well  digested.  He  will  not  need 
a  splendid  house,  or  furniture,  or  equipage :  for  what  external 
display  can  add  to  the  greatness  of  talent,  knowledge,  and 
virtue ;  or  bolster  up  vice  and  insignificance ;  aud  why  should 
he  surround  himself  with  pomp  and  splendour,  when  his  Crea- 
tor surrounds  him  daily,  with  a  richness  in  the  earth  and 
heavens,  that  sinks  the  proudest  efforts  of  art  to  trifles.  And 
why  should  he  seek  treasures  for  charity,  when  he  knows, 
that,  lavished  without  care,  they  only  corrupt,  and  that  the 
truly  benevolent  man  has  little  need  of  them,  in  executing  his 
godlike  purpose  of  rendering  men  industrious  and  temperate, 
that  they  may  be  happy.  Indeed  he  looks  on  what  the  world 
calls  wealth,  as  the  most  insignificant  thing  in  existence; 
merely  a  phantom,  which  makes  men  active  in  its  pursuit, 
but  as  unprincipled  as  active ;  and  which  spoils  them  when 
overtaken.  He  never  leans  on  the  strength  of  family  record?, 
and  pictures;  but  he  looks  on  the  bright  deeds  of  his  fathers, 
only  to  gather  fresh  incentives  to  well-doing. 

His  manners  will  be  elevated,  but  not  insolent.  He  will  not 
creep  along  with  puritanic  demureness ;  but  w  ill  walk  erect 
with  all  the  generous  elevation  of  Homer's  courser.  His  will 
be  a  dignity  founded  on  a  consciousness  of  personal  value : 
not  that  pride,  which  struts  in  a  little  brief  authority,  and 
swells  itself  with  the  adventitious  circumstances  of  birth  and 
fortune.  Is  he  the  master  of  his  passions,  the  lord  of  his  ap- 
petites, rich  in  high  and  useful  knowledge,  in  warm  and  gene- 
rous feelings,  in  grand  and  resolved  purposes,  and  in  liberal 
and  extensive  views?  he  has  indeed  reason  for  exultation, 
and  cause  to  be  proud  of  his  own  worth :  but  his  will  be  a 
pride,  which  has  nothing  supercilious,  nothing  overbearing : 


94 

that  dignity,  which  warms  and  gladdens,  not  that  haughtiness , 
which  blasts  and  destroys ;  the  serene  elevation  of  a  mind,  al- 
ways moving  in  a  pure  and  lofty  region,  mingling  alone  with 
greater  thoughts  and  nobler  feelings,  and  communicating  its 
own  majesty  to  every  look,  and  attitude,  and  motion. 

The  word  resentment  has  no  place  in  his  vocabulary.  He 
utterly  discards  duelling,  as  a  monstrous  relic  of  a  savage  state, 
uhich  lingers  around  us,  as  if  to  remind  us  of  the  violence  and 
madness,  from  which  we  have  emerged.  Is  a  slight  insult  of- 
fered him?  He  shakes  it  on",  like  dew  from  the  lion's  mane. 
Is  lie  more  basely  insulted?  He  thinks  it  punishment  enough 
10  let  the  villain  live,  and  wither  under  the  proud  glance  of 
his  scorn.  Is  he  injured,  so  that  the  peace  of  his  family  and 
society  is  concerned  ?  The  strong  arm  of  the  law  h>  then  his 
only  avenger.  He  is  not  a  man  to  be  led  away  by  names. 
He  thinks  him  the  braver  man,  who,  in  the  face  of  public  opi- 
uiuii,  dares  to  obey  the  dictates  of  truth  and  justice  j  not  him, 
who  bows  to  the  tyranny  of  custom,  and  yields  up  his  life  at 
her  blood-stained  altar.  He  holds,  in  utter  contempt,  that 
courage,  which  dares  not  do  right,  though  the  whole  world  be 
in  at  ins  against  it ;  but  will  madly  risk  destruction  to  gain  the 
^.-useless  applause  of  a  mob.  If  human  life  be  sought  with  the 
purpose  of  revenge ;  he  thinks  the  guilt  as  deep,  whether  the 
murderer  ofler  his  own  life  on  equal  terms,  or  steal  upon  his 
incmy  in  darkness.  He  considers  that  honour,  which  cannot 
be  supported  by  a  steady  virtue,  t.nd  a  lofty  forgiveness,  as 
talsely  usurping  the  name,  ami  deserving  no  better  title  than 
dastardly  meanness.  He  calls  things  by  their  just  names. 
He  does  not  smooth  over,  with  gentle  epithets,  base  amuse- 
ments and  criminal  pleasures,  because  they  arc  loved  and 
sanctioned  by  the  splendid  and  the  gay.  He  thinks  it  as  cruel 
to  lash  a  generous  horse  to  the  last  efforts  of  his  speed,  as  to 
Jet  loose  on  each  other  the  fury  of  ferocious  animals.  He 
does  not  give  a  softer  name  to  the  elegant  intemperance  of 
the  rich,  than  to  the  sordid  vices  of  the  poor;  but  he  embraces 
them  both  within  the  sweep  of  his  unsparing  malediction. 


95 

As  his  first  object  is  truth,  he  will  never  cling  to  his  own 
mistakes.  He  will  be  as  ready  to  confess  his  errors,  as  to 
claim  a  victory.  He  will  have  none  of  that  meanness,  which 
takes  fire,  when  corrected ;  but  he  will  think  iiis  just  adviser, 
hi*  best  friend.  He  win  consider  him,  one  who  has  saved  him 
from  exposing  himself  to  the  insolent  triumph  of  the  evil-mind* 
ed,  and  who  has  lent  him  a  helping  hand  in  his  perpetual 
ascent  towards  a  pure  and  manly  virtue. 

Such  are  some  of  the  traits  of  a  magnanimous  character. 
How  worthy  of  all  praise  mu*;t  be  the  man,  who,  after  a  cruel 
education,  which  had  corrupted  his  youth,  and  robbed  it  of  the 
bloom  of  health  and  virtue,  has  yet  strength  enough  to  retrace 
his  steps,  and  press  on  with  undeviating  energy  in  the  right 
path,  regardless  of  the  scorn  of  the  unjust  and  the  unfeeling, 
the  coldness  of  friends,  the  defection  of  fonder  attachments, 
the  bitter  regret  of  past  errors,  the  loss  of  time  and  opportu" 
nity,  the  depression  of  sickness  and  sorrow,  and  the  almost 
irresistible  call  of  habits,  which  bark  around  him,  like  the 
dogs  of  the  furies.  He,  who  can  resist  all  this,  and  go  on  de- 
termined in  wisdom  and  goodness,  is  a  hero  far  greater,  than 
the  victor,  who  rides  over  death  to  empire. 


[1  have  here  attempted  to  sketch  a  picture  of  the  feelings  and 
musings  of  an  imaginative  mind.  I  have  adopted  a  pecu- 
liar style,  because  it  seemed  to  coincide  with  the  nature  of 
the  subject,  and  my  own  feelings,  when  I  wrote  it.  Writers 
are  allowed  to  adopt  different  styles  and  measures  in  poetry 
— why  not  different  dictions  in  prose  ?] 

"  Ego,  apis  Matitue 
More  modoque" 

THAT  the  minds,  the  tempers,  and  the  intellectual  and  mo- 
ral powers  of  individuals  are  as  different,  as  their  forms,  their 


96 

features,  their  health,  and  their  vigour,  if  a  truth  at  evident  to 
me,  as  any  truth,  which  does  not  admit  of  absolute  demonstra- 
tion. Some  men  are  endowed  by  nature  with  great  vigour  of 
mind  and  body,  capable  of  long-continued  and  gigantic  efforts ; 
but  moving  in  all  their  operations  slowly,  though  surely. 
These  men  often  show  a  degree  of  obtusencss  in  childhood, 
which  leads  the  less  sagacious  to  augur  nothing  good  of  their 
maturer  years ;  but  strength,  exactness,  and  perseverance,  be- 
come to  them  the  certain  means  of  high  and  permanent  ad- 
vancement ;  and  although  they  never  can  pour  around  them 
the  lightnings  and  terrors  of  genius,  yet  they  render  the  whole 
circle  of  their  life  one  day  of  warm  bright  sunshine.  Others 
endowed  with  that  fearful  and  mysterious  gift  of  genius, 
which  the  world  has  so  often  worshipped  for  its  resistless  mani- 
festations, and  neglected  for  its  repulsive  irregularities ;  high- 
toned,  irritable,  feeling  every  sense  of  pleasure  and  pain  with 
the  poignancy  of  agony  or  rapture;  moving  with  the  rapidity, 
the  eccentricity,  and  the  ominous  glare  of  a  comet ;  never  mo- 
derate in  their  desires  and  endeavours  ;  now  springing  with  the 
collected  energy  of  an  eagle  to  some  high  and  unattainable  glo- 
ry, and  then  sinking  down  exhausted,  and  brooding,  in  all  the 
bitterness  of  despair,  over  the  wrecks  of  their  celestial  long- 
ings; now  giving  their  intellectual  powers,  with  a  lavishing 
madness,  to  the  instant  comprehension  of  truths,  which  should 
have  required  a  long  and  calm  investigation,  and  then  exclaim- 
ing, in  weary  listlessness,  against  the  folly  and  nothingness  of 
every  exertion  to  be  wise,  or  great,  or  good  :  these  men,  who, 
in  their  stronger  and  darker  deeds,  put  forth  the  intellectual 
might  of  Milton's  Satan,  and  who,  could  their  efforts  be  justly 
directed,  would  always  move  on,  like  the  sun  in  his  unclouded 
summer  glories,  diffusing  life  and  warmth  to  all  around  them  ; 
these  men,  after  an  agitated  life,  in  which  health  and  honour, 
and  peace  and  friendship,  have  been  sacrificed  to  sudden  and 
impetuous  feelings,  after  every  suffering  of  body,  and  torture 
of  mind  have  been  endured,  go  down,  neglected  and  unlament- 
«-tl.  to  an  early  grave,  and  leave  the  world  astonished,  that  one 


97 

being  could  unite  in  himself  energies,  which  command  even 
awe  and  admiration,  and  wcakncggcs,  which  fill  us  with  pity 
and  contempt. 

And  that  such  men  should  be  neglected  by  the  soberer  part 
of  the  world  is  nothing  wonderful.  Men  do  not  like  to  be  dnz- 
xled.  They  can  enjoy  a  warm  soft  sunshine,  and  feel  emo- 
tions of  thankfulness  to  the  dispenser  of  so  comfortable  a  sen- 
sation ;  but  they  close  their  eyes  against  a  brilliancy  too  strong 
for  their  feeble  organs,  and  feel  only  pain,  where  intellect*:, 
keener  and  more  exalted,  gaze  with  pleasure.  Besides  the 
mass  of  the  world  go  through  life  in  search  of  comfort  and 
present  enjoyment ;  or  they  spend  aJl  their  efforts  in  hedg- 
ing in  themselves  and  their  families  with  <t  circumvallation  of 
earthly  treasures,  and  then  look  out  from  the  loop-hok-s  of 
their  strong  cables  in  proud  defiance,  on  the  croud,  who  wan- 
der unsheltered  around  them.  The  fur-off  blessings,  wliirh 
the  ethereali/ed  imagination  is  always  dreaming  of,  uiul  never 
reaches,  have  no  community  with  their  more  ileshly  spirits, 
and  they  either  profess  to  look  uith  contempt  on  these  insane. 
reveries;  or  they  pour  upon  them  the  anathemas  of  a  mood  v 
religion,  which  would  cramp  the  expanding^  and  aspiring  of 
our  higher  nature  within  the  allowed  hoped  and  prospects  of 
a  bigot's  creed. 

There  is  a  fountain  of  thought  and  feeling,  in  those  chosen 
spirits,  which  is  ever  springing  up  fresh  and  full,  and  pouring 
over  the  richness  of  its  treasures  on  nil  things  aro.nul  it 
giving  them  hues,  which  they  have  not  in  themselves,  niul  co- 
vering them  with  a  luxuriance,  which  another  and  a  colder 
heart  would  not  find  around  them,  and  making  of  the  barren- 
est  spot  an  Kilen,  and  of  the  driest  desert  a  land  of  brooks  and 
water  courses. 

They  have  within  them  too  a  creative  energy,  which  culls. 

from  the  stores  of  memory,  the  choicest  and  the  fairest,  and 

forms  them  into  landscapes  of  surpassing  loveliness,  a  rich  and 

harmonizing  union  of  mountain  und  valley,  where  the  sunlit 

0 


i<Hk  htu  its  buld  Forehead  from  the  deep  gloom  oi  torc»t? , 
mid  the  leaves  are  moving  in  the  wind,  nnd  twinkling  in  the 
sunbeams ;  where  the  full  light  of  heaven  descends  and  rests  on 
the  waving  meadow,  and  the  brook  steals  along  from  rapid  to 
pool,  and  from  overbowcring  shade  to  open  sunshine;  where 
the  living  things  of  earth  are  asleep  in  their  midday  slumber, 
and  nothing  is  heard,  but  the  solitary  whistle  of  the  Ph'ebe  in 
the  dank  hollow,  and  the  chirp  of  the  locust  on  the  oak-top: 
where  the  heart  goes  away  to  the  blue  sky,  and  the  white 
clouds  that  sleep  around  it,  to  meet  the  spirits  of  departed 
pleasures ;  where  it  finds  its  loved  ones  in  their  earliest  beauty, 
and  lives  over  the  hallowed  moments  of  condensed  beatitude, 
and  forgets,  for  awhile,  it  is  still  dwelling  on  earth,  and  thinks 
it  has  taken  a  last  leave  of  its  grosser  inc  umbra  noes,  and  is 
now  a  pure  and  winged  spirit  in  the  bright  and  boundless  sen 
cf  immortality. 

And  if  ever  there  are  moments,  which  one  would  w  isli  to  live 
over  again,  which  leave  no  stain  upon  the  spirit,  and  no  wounds 
to  fester  in  the  bosom,  and  are  to  us,  as  gay  inlands,  in  the  cold 
and  stormy  ocean  we  arc  sailing  over;  it  is,  when  the  pure  na- 
ture within  us  has  thrown  oil' the  shackles  of  chilling  want  and 
besetting  appetite,  and  has  entered  into  communion  with  its 
better  feelings,  and  holier  aspirations;  when  it  lias  forgotten 
itself  in  its  minglings  with  kindred  spirits,  and  has  found  ab* 
sorbing  ecstasies  in  the  communication  of  mutual  blessings; 
when  it  has  given  to  another  and  a  dear  one  a  new  pleasure 
of  taste  or  tenderness,  and  has  taken  back  in  return  the  kind 
look  and  the  delighted  accent ;  w  hen  it  has  felt,  as  the  blended 
feolingi  partook  deeper  and  deeper  of  the  same  enjoyment, 
a  linking  together  of  two  existences,  till  every  thought,  and 
glance,  and  motion,  seemed  in  unison,  and  one  could  not  be 
joyous,  and  the  other  unhappy,  and  the  tear  could  not  rise  on 
one  eyelid,  and  the  other's  heart  not  overflow  in  sympathetic 
sorrow. 

And  who  would  wish  to  rob  the  feeling  mind  of  his  ideal 
happiness  nnd  call  down  his  imagination,  now  revelling  in 


99 

bowers  of  Eden,  and  rejoicing  with  angeU  and  blessed  spirits 
in  the  undiscovered  mansions  of  a  long-wished-for  Hereafter , 
where  he  has  pictured  his  companions  in  all  the  pcrfectuess 
of  form,  and  charm  of  feature,  that  ever  poet  conceived,  or 
painter  embodied,  and  has  taken  the  flowers  and  the  birds, 
when  the  sweetest  and  the  fairest,  and  the  thinking  and  feel- 
ing  beings  of  his  paradise,  when  youngest  and  gayest,  in  the 
glad  season  of  life's  spring,  when  taste  is  nature,  and  sensibi- 
lity the  untaught  movings  of  a  stainless  bosom ;  where  he  ha* 
made  them  sleepless  in  delight,  and  ever  active  in  enjoyment, 
looking  on  all  around  them  with  the  keen  glance  of  novelty, 
catching  at  once  the  fitness  of  groupings,  and  tlie  har- 
mony of  motion  and  expression  with  the  thoughts  \\itltiu 
them,  and  never  knowing  what  it  is  to  have  the  dull  call  oi 
unfeeling  command  breaking  in  upon  their  lovely  musing?, 
uid  marring  the  beauty  of  a  high-wrought  fancy-piece  with 
the  heavy  obtrusion  of  some  homely  and  spiritless  labour. 

These  minds  of  fine  and  ethereal  texture  are  indeed  not 
made  for  the  inevitable  toils  and  crosses  of  a  life  like  this. 
They  are  always  connected  with  a  constitution  so  delicate, 
and  so  sensible  to  every  touch,  that  the  slightest  breeze  of 
misfortune  ruffles  them,  and  a  neglect,  at  which  heartier  spi- 
rits would  laugh  in  their  reckless  independence,  weighs  upon 
them,  and  bows  them,  till  the  air  around  them  is  unmingled 
blackness,  and  the  sickened  ear  is  shocked  with  the  liveliest 
music,  and  the  heart  is  ready,  in  its  bitterness,  to  say,  that 
all  on  earth,  that  is  sweet  and  fair,  is  a  mockery,  and  exist- 
ence but  an  ugly  dream. 

And  if  they  attempt  to  throw  off  the  gloom,  that  weighs  s«» 
heavily  upon  them,  and  to  mingle  in  the  prc»*  and  jostle  of  a 
busy  world,  they  find  their  souls  grow  dead  and  senseless, 
unmoved  by  the  fine  touch  of  beauty,  and  unmelted  by  the 
f fiulcr ;  then  they  grow  disgusted  w  ith  their  coarseness,  and 
think  they  have  put  away  the  charm  of  their  belter  nature, 
and  are  ashamed,  that  they  can  stoop  to  grosser  indulgences, 
and  wnite  their  hour*  in  rude  imd  heartier  merriment,  that 


100 

they  can  look  upon  another'*  suffering  with  dull  emotion, 
and  bo  contented,  like  the  many,  to  gather  wherever  a  har- 
vest is  offered,  and  ask  not,  whether  their  own  luxuries  be 
purchased  by  the  sparing  of  a  fellow  creature,  or  even 
wrenched  from  the  helpless  hand,  that  frit  in  losing  them,  a* 
il'  its  life  was  plundered,  and  the  fruit  of  long  and  patient 
toiling  torn  away  to  gladden  the  heart  of  a  greedy  tyrant. 

And  when  he  muses  on  tin's,  and  embraces,  in  the  grasp  of 
his  benevolence,  the  whole  world  of  feeling,  and  sees  how 
much  of  evil  is  endured,  and  how  inevitably  it  must  be  suf- 
fered, and  that  if  he  be  set  apart  in  a  purer  region,  it  is  only 
at  the  expense  of  another's  toil  and  privation,  he  then  begins 
to  feel,  that  there  is  even  a  sin  in  his  purer  musings;  and  if 
he  return  from  the  noise  of  the  city  to  the  lonely  wood,  and 
ihc  secret  valley,  to  hold  communion  with  his  own  better 
thoughts,  to  recall  his  former  intercourse  with  ancient  wor- 
thies, and  to  renew  high  society  with  the  master  spirits,  who 
live  in  their  recorded  out-pourings,  he  feels  that  he  is  taking 
from  the  accumulated  stores  of  beings,  who  might  equally 
relish  these  high  enjoyments,  but  who,  to  give  him  a.  quiet 
ami  a  shelter,  toil  on  through  the  weury  day  of  life,  bringing 
down  their  souls  from  their  native  quurry,  and  mixing  them 
with  grosser  things,  till  the  fine  spirit  is  evaporated,  and  no- 
thing, but  bitter  dregs,  is  left  to  be  drank  in  the  hopclc** 
years  of  age  ami  exhaustion. 

Then  a  new  feeling  rises  within  him,  and  he  wishes  to 
betake  himself  to  the  solitary  desert,  or  to  live  on  an  island 
in  the  lonely  ocean,  there  to  be  fed  by  the  toil  of  his  owu 
hands  and  the  bounties  of  nature;  and  a.s  he  hud  before  fled 
from  the  society  of  living  men,  because  all  could  not  be  equal, 
so  he  would  now  abandon  his  books,  because  they  take  from 
him  the  power  of  independence,  and  steal  from  him  that  time, 
which  should  be  spent  in  more  gainful*  labours,  and  that 
strength,  which  should  supply  his  own  physical  necessities; 
and  he  would  then  wish  to  divest  himself  of  every  thought, 
he  had  borrowed  from  others,  to  return  to  the  simple  igno- 


101 

of  childhood,  and  be  the  pupil  of  none  but  nature  ;  and 
while  Ins   hand  miuUtered  to  his  unavoidable  wants,  wander 
with  hi*  eye  over  the  glorien  before  him,  and  find  his  only  re- 
vchition  in  the  bright  sky,  and  I'M-  green  hills,  and  the  blur 
billow*,  hi*  only  worship  in  the  gpontancou*  adoration  of  * 
pure  spirit,  when  it  drinks  in  the  simple  loveliness  of  nature, 
his  only  temple  tin-  wide  arch,  that  bends  over  him,  with  it- 
mountain  pillar-,  its  utarry  lamps,  and  its  floor  of  earth  and 
ocean,   and    hi*   only  imisir ,    the  out-breaking  of  joy  in  the 
notes  of  wild  birds,  and  the  venial  cry  of  reptiles,  the  rush  of 
winds  through  the  forests,  ami  the  far-oflf  roaring  of  uplifted 
waters;    till  his   mind   should   return    to    its   pristine  health 
and  delicacy,  be  alive  to  every  tender  emotion,  and  sensible 
to  every  moral  blemish,  and  shrink  from  contamination,  a-> 
from  a  deadly  and  destroying  venom;  till  he  should  nt  la>r 
see,  that  if  man  would  equably  employ  hi*  various  faculties, 
and  keep  the  golden  rule  of  moderation  ki  artl  things,  would 
never  pervert  the  untaught  feelings  of  nature,  nor  yield  to 
the  impulse  of  sense  or  selfishness,  would  lie  satisfied  to  be 
like  his  fellows,  and  Iwlieve  the  grandest  rank  is  that  of  un- 
blemished virtue,  that  he  need  not  go  away  to  imagined  islands, 
or  snowrlad  mountain*,  or  mansions  beyond  this  sublunary 
world,  for  thr-  Kden  of  his  heart,  and  the  heaven  of  his  fancy. 
Then,  in  the  overpowering  wish  for  the  perfection  he  can 
picture,  the  .w  ild  longing  for  the  freedom  he  aspires  to,  and 
the  hope  that  these  high  aspirations  are  not  all  a  chimera,  he 
wanders  forth  amid  the  rudest  and  the  grandest  forms  of  na- 
ture, and  feels'  his  spirit  harmonizing  with  their  gloom  and 
•va&tness ;  ho  looks  abroad  from  the  mountain  peak,  and  re- 
joices, that  he  is  so  far  away  from  the  dim  abodes  of  wretch- 
edness, and  so  far  above  the  smoke  of  cities;  he  gladdens 
in  the  sun,  as  it  rolls  more  brightly  over  him,  and  is  braced 
and  exhilarated  by  the  pure  wind,  that  rushes  around  him; 
and  he  envies  the  eagle  his  wings,  and  thinks,  if  he  could 
mount  on  as  strong  a  pinion,  he  would  not  wheel  around  tbos^ 


rocks,  and  prowl  on  tlio  f.mns  below  them,  but  would  stretch 
.i\\  ny  to  some  fairy  island,  at  a  retumless  distance,  and  be 
hnppy  in  the  company  of  ministering  spirits  and  pure  intelli- 
gences. 

Then  his  mind  takes  a  new  energy,    and   his   soul   feels 
quickened   to  a  new  creation ;  there  comes  down  to  him  a 
fur  from  the   celestial  altar,  and   he  is  rapt  and  beatified ; 
iii-    thought*    ru*h    iiloiiu    like    a    mighty    river,    the    well* 
>;>i  in;  of  nn'inorv  in  broken  np,  and  the  imuu«-»,  that  he  ha* 
been  storing  in  years  of  solitary  study,  come  forth,  and  roll 
around  him  in  all  the.  wildnes*  ami  magnificence  of  a  stirred- 
n;i  ocean  ;  then  he  hurries  over  the  sky,  and  sees  it  peopled 
\v  ilh  IniL'  lit  worlds  passing  away  into  the  measureless  distance 
of  space,  and  lie  follows  them  in  all  their  orbits,  counts  their 
number,   and  marshal*  the  hosts  of  heaven ;  then  he  gazes 
on   the  clouds,  as  they  gather  around  the  high  peaks,  and 
sweep  away  over  the  valleys,  and  he  traces  their  forms  in  all 
their  folds  ,'ind  volumes,  he  sees  them  aimed  with  lightnings, 
lie  hears  tin-  thunder  bursting  on  the  mountains,  and  listens 
with  delight  to  the  countless  echoes  that  answer  from  rock 
and  valley ;  and  at  once  his  fancy  has  crossed  the  wide  sea, 
and  is  now  among  the  islands  of  perpetual  surinncr,  and  the 
nicht  is  still  and  bright  around  him,  the  black  sky  withdraws 
to  a  vaster  distance,  and  all  its  lights  are  keen  in  brightness, 
and  seem  to  hang  as  lamps  from  the  ebon  arch  above  them, 
thr  air  is  silent,  the  winds  are  in  their  caverns,  the  leaf  hangs 
still  in  the  forest,  ami  the  whole  world  seems  at  rest  and  quiet ; 
then  the  mirrored  sea  begins  to  rise  without  a  wind,  and  to 
roar  far  away  with  an  awful  warning,  and  a  little  cloud  rises 
on  the  skirts  of  heaven,  and  moves,  like  a  bird,  over  the  wa- 
ters, it  spreads  and  spreads  more  widely,  till  it  sweeps  the 
whole  width  of  beaten,  and  it  comes  on,  like  the  rapid  inarch 
of  H  destroying  army,   with    the  rush  of  winds,  the  roar  of 
thunders,  and  the  bursting  of  billows;  then  the  s/;a  is  tossed 
in  mountains,  the  foam  curls  over  its  wild  waves,  and  streams 
on  the  tempest,  the  dashing  waters  rush  on  the  land  with  do.- 


103 

vouring  fury,  the  broad  lightnings  launch  from  volume  lo 
volume  of  the  black  tornado,  the  earth  is  dark  as  death,  and 
then  brighter  than  tenfold  noonday,  the  winds  sweep  the  land 
in  columned  fierceness,  and  forests  bow,  rocks  are  shivered, 
and  houses  fall  in  ruins,  the  rain  pours  in  a  sheet  of  water*, 
and  man  shrinks  to  tiic  earth,  and  feels  himself  a  cypher  amid 
the  madness  of  the  elements. 

Then  hi»  eye  cat*  hen  a  glimpse  of  the  distant  river,  as  it 
lies  in  the  gilding  of  noonlight ;  and  his  fanry  is  like  a  fleet 
bird  hovering  around  all  the  shores  of  classic  and  tropic  love- 
liness ;  and  he  is  MOW  flitting  up  the  valley  of  lovely  Arno,  and 
the  bright  spires,  the  lofty  towers,  and  stately  palaces  of  Flo- 
rence arc  rising  over  the  groves  of  elms  and  poplars,  the  mea- 
dows are  full  of  blossoms,  every  shade  is  living  with  mu>ic, 
and  every  bower  is  loud  with  mirth  and  dancing,  the  plains 
ar«-  yellow  with  the  loaded  harvest,  the  hill-sides  are  hung 
with  blue  vineyards,  and  beyond  them  the  snow  of  the  Apen- 
nine  rests  on  a  sky  of  the  softest  and  purest  azure,  the  sun 
walks  over  this  Eden  in  cloudless  splendour,  the  earth  and 
the  heavens  are  beautifully  magnificent,  and  he  dreams  not, 
that  vice,  and  poverty,  and  slavery  are  festering  and  crourhing 
on  a  soil,  which  should  only  be  fruitful  in  virtue  and  glory. 

And  then  he  is  away  among  the  Paphian  islands  of  the 
peaceful  ocean  ;  and  he  is  sitting  beneath  the  umbel  of  a 
palm-tree,  watching  the  dancing  of  its  long  spearlike  leaves, 
and  the  waving  of  its  nodding  clusters,  in  the  seabrceze,  that 
plays  around  them;  and  the  painted  birds,  in  their  gala  of 
gold  and  crimson,  come  and  go,  wheel  around,  and  settle  on 
the  branches,  and  they  »ip  the  liquid  honey,  that  drops  from 
the  -opening  blosoin*,  and  snap  the  insects,  that  revel  in  the 
sweets,  and  glance  in  the  sunbeams,  and  the  air  is  full  of  their 
busy  voices;  again  they  rise  in  a  cloud,  and  an*  floating  olV 
to  a  richer  plunder,  their  wings  glitter  and  glow  in  the  clear 
light  that  rolls  around  them,  and  they  seem  like  a  curtain  of 
gems,  or  the  flow  of  a  silken  banner,  their  shrill  mu»ic  dies 
iiway  on  the  wind,  and  the  air  is  hushed  in  voluptuous  still- 


104 

ne*» ;  thru  th«  green  thrush  comes  from  hrr  bushy  solitude, 
and  sits  on  the  palm-top,  she  nings  her  low  iwcut  v>n^(  and 
he  iliinks  it  is  a  flute,  or  a  woman's  voice  complaining  at  u 
distance;  thru  lie  is  awhile  at  home,  and  the  plaintive  uu  of 
his  unlive  village  is  breathing  around  him,  hts  lieart  swells, 
ami  tho  tfHi  s  How  nnl>idden,  he  ir.-ls  (he  pang  of  sorrow 
ri  .imp  his  l>osom,  his  soul  is  m.  It.'d,  and  hi*  whole  spirit  llou- 
away  like  water.  Then  he  Inoka  out  on  the  ocean,  and  sees 
its  white  waves  breaking  on  the  coral  reef,  and  boiling  over 
on  the  still  lagoon,  and  the  feathered  flakes  Jloat  away  on  the 
ripple,  that  come  lessening-  and  whispering  to  the  shore; 
the  light  gulls  hang  in  Hocks  over  the  water,  they  dip  their 
bills,  and  carry  off  their  prey  in  triumph,  aud  their  screaming 
rises  along  the  coast  like  the  confuted  shouting  of  nn  army ; 
the  tall  crane  stalks  with  measured  step  along  the  sand, 
und  utter*  his  voice  like  the  deep  bray  of  a  trumpet ;  the 
damingo  slandi,  like  a  form  of  fire,  on  the  wave-lashed  rock, 
uud  the  lr,l,i  ^lam-en  richly  over  his  Mcurlet  plumule  ;  and  the 
white  tropic-bird  skims  over  the  high  green  billow  on  his  long 
black  winggj  or  hangs,  poised  like  a  tlitting  cloud,  far  aloft  in 
the  horizon.  Then  he  sees  a  fleet  of  canoes  coming  around 
a  distant  promontory,  paddling  over  the  smooth  boy,  and 
tossin?  the  water  around  them,  like  wild  fowl  in  their  gam- 
bols; the  broad  matted  sails  swell  out  in  the  cool  wind, 
that  comes  oiT  from  the  ocean,  and  is  flying  to  the  hills  and 
the  woods,  as  if  to  rest  in  their  dark  recesses,  they  throw 
their  long  shadows  before  them,  and  the  water  is  darkened 
around  the  prows,  like  a  lake  when  a  cloud  flies  over  it; 
they  come  moving  their  oars  to  the  sound  of  simple  flutes 
and  untaught  voices ;  they  touch  the  land,  and  thcji  come 
forth  with  song  and  dancing,  and  march  away  to  the 
woods  in  graceful  order;  their  glossy  mantles  flow  around 
their  shoulders,  their  arms  shine  with  rings  of  pearl,  their 
heads  tin;  crowned  with  blue  and  scarlet  fcathcrx,  und  neck- 
laces  of  the  brightest  aud  sweetest  flowers  are  festooned 
around  them,  and  spicy  blossoms  of  snowy  whiteness  «pan«:l«> 


105 

their  loner  Mack  locks;  they  walk  erect  in  the  dignity  of  na- 
ture, or  dance  to  the  sound  of  melodious  music,  and  their 
checks  of  olive  softness  glow  with  the  flush  of  health  and  mo- 
tion, like  the  clear  red,  that  shines  through  the  brown  rind  of 
the  pomegranate.  Then  he  follows  them  through  the  woods 
to  a  siincd  enclosure,  in  the  solitude  of  a  retired  valley,  where 
the  wooded  hills  are  rising  in  an  evergreen  circle,  and 
the  palm  waves  in  the  wind,  the  bamboo  nods  on  the  rock, 
and  the  wild  vines  creep  over  the  trees,  and  weave  their 
arches  of  broad  leaves  and  purple  blossoms,  win-re  the  cocoa 
with  its  wide  crown  and  columned  trunk,  and  the  bread- 
tree  with  its  fingered  leaves  and  clustered  cones  stand  in 
ordered  lines  around  them,  and  plantanes,  in  their  tufted 
bloom  and  fruitage,  and  reeds  and  canes,  with  their  pointed 
blades  and  silken  tassels,  fence  in  the  still  retreat,  and  close  it 
from  the  sight  and  entrance  of  profaner  mortal*.  And  there 
tlirv  move  in  circling  choir*  to  ti  low  and  solemn  meaxure, 
and  their  song  is  like  the  moaning  of  bereaved  matrons, 
blended  at  times  with  the  shriek  of  terror;  and  the  priests 
come  forth  from  their  dark  recess  in  a  dress  of  fantastic  wild- 
ness,  they  mutter  over  their  fearful  incantations,  the  music 
ceases,  and  the  dancers  .are  still  and  breathless ;  then  a  wo- 
man of  a  hostile  nation  is  brought  forward,  she  clasps  an 
infant  to  her  breast  with  the  gripe  of  desperate  fondness,  they 
tear  away  the  frighted  babe  from  her  clinging  arms,  and  with 
a  look  of  wild  entreaty  she  sees  it  borne  to  a  pile  of  fuel,  and 
its  little  limbs  bound  in  sacrifice,  then  her  sight  grows  dark, 
and  she  falls  with  a  faint  shriek  in  a  dead  insensibility;  and 
they  consecrate  the  innocent  to  the  demon  of  slaughter,  to  wait 
till  the  battle  turn  against  them,  and  then  to  be  slain  and 
burned  to  the  rattling  of  drums  and  the  shouts  of  infuriate 
dancers.  Then  the  warriors  throw  away  their  flowing  robes, 
and  rush  forth  in  naked  wildness,  brandishing  their  clubs, 
and  clashing  their  spears,  and  their  shouts  and  their  yells  rin-j 
through  the  forest,  like  the  out-breaking  of  a  host  of  demons, 
their  limbs  writhe  in  tho  violence  of  their  contortion*,  th^! 


106 

eyes  flash,  and  their  features  look  unutterable  fury ;  they  hurl 
at  once  thrir  arms  toward  the  land  of  their  lot-men,  and  de- 
nounce against  them  insatiate  vengeance;  then  they  spring 
forward  to  the  shore,  and  their  war  canoes  move  swiftly  over 
the  wave*,  in  ordered  file  and  measured  motion,  and  the  oar* 
chime  to  the  song  of  battle ;  and  midway  on  the  sea  the  fleet 
of  the  enemy  is  advancing  against  them,  and  the  waves  foam 
before  their  hurried  prows,  and  seem  alive  with  their  swarming 
numbers ;  then  the  fleets  approach,  a  yell  is  heard,  and  the 
boats  are  mingled  ;  and  there  is  a  rattling  of  arms,  and  a  cou- 
fu^ed  cry  of  wrath  and  agony  ;  aud  in  the  heat  of  the  battle, 
a  tall  sail,  and  a  \\hite  flag  is  seen  moving  to  part  them,  it 
comes  forward  in  the  press  of  its  canvass,  and  leaps  over 
the  waves  with  the  pride  and  swiftness  of  a  racehorse,  it 
<haws  nigh,  and  passes  between  the  contending  furies,  the 
canoe?  part,  and  shrink  back  in  terror,  the  tumult  is 
hushed,  and  a  death-like  calm  broods  over  the  waters;  then 
the  ship  comes  to  laud,  its  sails  are  furled,  its  anchors  moored, 
und  the  boat  drops  from  its  tackling,  aud  heralds  of  peace,  in 
white  robes,  with  hymning  voices,  descend  and  glide  slowly  to 
the  shore;  then  they  move  in  majesty  to  the  sound  of  sacred 
iiw.sic,  and  tin-  savage  shrinks  from  before  them,  his  voice 
is  mute,  his  eye  sunk,  and  his  rage  conquered;  and  they  go 
to  the  Morai,  and  stop  the  rite*  of  cruelty;  the  mother's 
In-art  gladdens,  as  ih<-v  give  back  her  infant,  and  the  little  in* 
uoccnt  clings  to  ln-r  bosom,  and  twines  its  fingers  in  her  scat- 
tered locks ;  and  they  proclaim  aloud,  that  war  shall  have  an 
**nd,  they  cast  down  the  bloody  spear  of  battle,  and  raise  aloft 
the  white  flag  of  redemption,  and  its  wide  folds  play  in  the 
•tweet  winds,  and  glance  in  the  sunbeams,  like  a  banner  of 
light  in  the  land  of  the  blessed. 

Then  he  sees  the  sun  rising  over  the  mistress  of  nations, 
where  she  sits  on  her  hills,  in  her  mural  crown,  like  the  Bere- 
.-yiit liian  goddess  on  the  summit  of  Ida ;  and  he  stands  be- 
neath the  Doric  dome  of  her  protecting  deity,  and  a  pale  and 
•olcmn  light  streams  through  the  alabaster  windows,  and 


107 

$iv«  a  faint  hue  to  the  fluted  pillars,  but  leaves  the  niches  in 
darkness,  and  as  it  glances  along  the  walls,  tinges  with  a  yel- 
low ray  the  trophies  of  war,  and  the  votive  offerings  of  heroes, 
the  Punic  beaks,  the  Grecian  palms,  and  the  Gallic  helmet* ; 
and  half  reveals,  in  the  dim  recess,  the  statue  of  her  own  pecu- 
liar Jove,  whose  right  hand  grasps  the  thunder,  and  whose  left 
sustains  a  column,  on  which  is  inscribed,  in  brazen  letters, 
"  ROMA."  And  there  he  sees,  arranged  in  silent  order,  the 
fathers  of  the  republic,  sitting  on  their  ctirule  chairs  and 
benches,  with  staid  and  graceful  dignity,  in  their  long  white 
robes  and  purple  badges ;  and  at  their  head,  on  a  higher'seat, 
the  keen  and  sleepless  consul,  with  his  eye  full  of  deep  thought, 
and  his  thin  and  spiritual  features  alive  with  the  workings  of 
lii.i  might v  bosom  ;  then  a  death-like  stillness  pervades  the 
high  assembly,  and  there  enters  a  tail  bony  man,  with  a  fierce 
and  haggard  look,  and  a  hurried  motion,  and  a>  he  advances 
to  take  his  seat,  the  senators  retire  before  him,  and  shrink  to 
the  other  side  of  the  temple,  as  from  the  breath  of  a  poisonous 
reptile  ;  and  at  once  the  orator  and  the  magistrate,  reading 
Lim  with  the  keen  glance  of  indignation,  rises  from  his  curule 
chair,  lilts  his  hand  with  commanding  gesture,  spreads  the 
folds  of  his  flowing  toga,  and  hursts  out  in  a  voice  of  kindled 
wrath  and  insulted  dignity  ;  and  as  he  pours  forth  his  ho- 
nest rage  in  unsparing  and  ceaseless  invective,  and  launches 
around  him  the  arrows  of  impassioned  eloquence,  the  cor- 
rupted ami  corrupting  worm  writhes  beneath  his  torture,  and 
looks  around  for  escape,  but  darc.«  not  Hy  from  the  fascina- 
tion of  that  stern  glance,  which  probes  the  deepest  folds  of  his 
bosom:  then  as  the  orator  draws  out,  one  by  one,  his  foul  pur- 
poses, and  baros  them  to  the  light  in  their  fullest  blackness, 
and  turns  to  the  solemn  statue  in  the  act  of  invoking  ven- 
geance, he  cowers  to  the  earth  like  a  wretch,  when  a  storm 
has  passed  over  him. 

Such  are  his  solitary  musings,  and  so  he  could  dream  on 
forever,  taking  in  with  delighted  sense  the  sights  and  sounds, 
that  are  moving  and  speaking  around  him,  and  linking  them 


108 

with  all  the  stores  of  his  memory,  and  all  the  creations  of  hit* 
fancy.  But  the  sun  is  going  down  behind  the  mountains,  and 
withdrawing  the  light,  that  warmed  and  inspired  him,  and  he 
turns  a  lingering  eye,  as  the  bright  orb  dips  behind  the  far 
peak,  and  the  yellow  light  streams  up  its  last  flash,  and  gives 
its  last  gilding  to  the  rocks  and  forests ;  and  he  looks  long 
and  fondly  on  the  amber  circle,  that  crowns  the  place  of  set- 
ting, and  the  gay  clouds,  that  burn  in  the  clear  flame  of  even- 
ing; then  he  sees  a  deep  red  stain  hang  around  the  west- 
ern ridges,  and  it  fades  into  a  cold  violet,  and  grows  fainter 
and  fainter,  till  the  general  blue  closes  over  the  darkened 
summits ;  then  the  stars  come  out  on  their  night-watch,  and 
the  sky  looks  black  and  comfortless  around  them  ;  the  north 
wind  begins  to  whistle  among  the  pines  and  stinted  cedars, 
and  In-  blood  grows  chill,  his  heart  sinks,  and  the  bright 
visions  of  his  soul  are  darkened;  then  he  hears  the  increas- 
ing call  of  hunger,  his  spirit  becomes  lifeless  and  barren,  and 
opens  to  all  the  cold  realities  of  life,  and  he  would  fain  de- 
scend to  the  homeliest  cot,  and  the  rudest  shelter,  and  sit 
down  by  the  fire  of  the  coarsest  woodman,  to  receive  his  cynic 
welcome,  and  partake  of  his  hard  fare,  and  his  bointerous 
hospitality ;  and  then  he  sees,  that  the  finest  and  the  richest 
minds  must  at  once  bid  adieu  to  life  and  all  its  pleasures,  or 
'•'•  content  to  share  in  its  toils,  and  buflet  its  billow? 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED   BELOW 


RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA,   DAVIS 

Book  S]ip-55m-IO,'68(J4048s8)458 — A-31/5 


N9   596983 


PS2542 

Percival,    J.G.  C4 

Clio.  no.l 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


